It all hurts, breathing, moving, blinking…it hurts so bad. Kind of like an aching behind my chesy bone. “what are we doing?” “We are living.” But not me. This isn’t living. This is dwindling to nothing while smiling on the outside. This is less than before, this is life through the eyes of a fake. Living as if there is no yesterday, no now, and no tomorrow. “Why?” because that’s how I was raised. Not by my mother, by the merciless crualities of my peers. I grew, learned, and hated by example of my fellow children who actualy had mothers, fathers, grandparents…people who loved them.

I have always been an extra. Something to kill off if need be. Unimportant. Worthless. Useless. “Do I matter?” “No you don’t.” It’s a horrible, endless cycle. I’d grow, I’d age…I’d feel beautiful, I’d get knocked down. I’d stand back up and think I matter then get dumped on the curb by someone who was everything. And I’d start to hate myself all over again. Around and around, the merry go goes. Sadness and hate, disappointment and reality.

When I was 10 my mother got married. I thought everything would get better. We’d have money…I wouldnt be hungry…I’d have clothes and a home where I was loved…no…it was worse. He hit me…it hurt. It was like needles exploading in my face when he slapped me, hammers hutting my shins when he knocked me down. He was so big and so strong and I was so small and so afraid. I gave in. I let him hurt me. I didn’t care, you know? My mother was blissfuly happy on whatever drugs she had, my sister was engrossed in her computer…so I took the beatings for them. I took the loathing and the bruises and the blood so they wouldn’t have to.

Then came the day I stood against him. He took a black gun out. I still remember that sight. Onyx and shining. Cold. Hard. He pressed it against my stomach and told me if I moved I was dead. He’d make itr look like a suicide. He’d win. I didn’t blink. I stood still for 10 minutes. No blinking, no twitching. I let him frighten me, make me small.

He’s force the pipe into my mouth…make me inhale and feel the heavy thick smoke burning my lungs. I remember the colors, that’s it. I don’t know what I did or who I hurt, but I remember the colors. They were free…I wanted to be free.

I gave up. He hurt me more and more, and it escalated to rape. I delt. When I returned to school they noticed the bruises, the scars, the blankness. They fought for me…im safe now…or am i? im not safe from myself…from who I was inside and the pain and hurt. None. No one can save me from that. Not even the medication or the sleep. It still hruts.