you will never be forgotten.
ever.
your name twisted into metaphors and colors and distractions will forever
be painted across pages and pages of her favorite brand of notebook,
no matter how many she burns
there will always be one she forgot,
and she will only find it once she had almost forgotten you.
she will find the one Papyrus notebook
and all of your metaphors and colors and disractions will come flooding back,
just like how the ocean in your eyes
flooded her heart all those years ago.

i don’t like what i see in the mirror
because i am nothing more than an ugly mess.

tired eyes
flabby tummy and big thighs
self harm scars
and layers of skins enough to hide my confidence.

i don’t like my reflection.
i don’t like them at all.

i was told that i was perfect the way i am
but then they would tell me
“maybe if you lose weight a little bit more
you could get rid of that chubby cheeks and double chin”.

so i skipped breakfast,
and lunch,
and dinner,
and sometimes i lose control and puke all the way out.
my throat would burn but i felt victorious.

and just like that i spend days and weeks and months and every moments counting calories that will flow down inside this mouth
one hundred
two hundred
not more than three
or else their terrifying gazes will speak to me and say
“ew, disgusting.”

i hate my reflection and i dislike my being
because who would have loved a person like me,
a person with self love the size of a teardrop?

and then they told me again that i don’t have to go on diet because i’ve got the body of Victoria’s Secret’s models

but again,
why would he left me for a girl
well,
she has smaller wrist, bigger chest and she’s always alive
i don’t blame him though
i am really not enough, right?

because anyone can say those three words
and anyone can say you’re perfect
as long as you fit their idea of perfection

i am no goddess and i know my place

but maybe
just maybe
someday,
i will finally be enough.

At age 7, I was guilty
when I accepted an invitation
to go into the apartment of a neighbor
He smelled of beer as he groped me.

At age 10, I was guilty
when I walked home too late
because I missed the train
He popped out of the bushes
exposing himself.

At age 12, I was guilty
when my uncle forced
tongue into my mouth
because I could not
get away.

At age 14, I was guilty
when my uncle forced
me to sit on his lap
while in my bathing suit
and I ran away from home.

At age 16, I was guilty
when my uncle convinced
everyone that I was a liar
and I quit school.

At age 18, I was guilty
when I gave birth to
my first child,
because I was ignorant.

At age 20, I was guilty
when I saw the cardiologist
in the reflection of a lamp
*******  and the
police laughed at my report.

At age 30, I was guilty
when my employer
trapped me in the elevator
to ***** me, because I
was his subserviant.

At age 36, I was guilty
when I earned jujitsu honors
but risked going to jail
for defending myself.

At age 70, I was guilty
when a neighbor brought
me fruit and grabbed my
breast, because I was alone.

At age 72, I am guilty
of being a ferule woman
for 50 years and for
NOT be silent!

Maybe the one talked over and hushed
Grew up to be quiet, reserved
Trying to develop a voice of their own
But it was never heard

Maybe the one seeking attention
Spent their life being ignored
Experiences shape perceptions
And perceptions shape our world

But this is where we start, not end
After all, we're not cement
We change and bend and learn and grow
We can end above and start below
Beliefs can change and so can we
What we were, we don't have to be