abuse is a picture that I am forced to paint with colors I have never seen. if I draw fists into open arms, if I sketch an apology in between berating, if I fill in every empty space with love, no one will come running for the child who cried help.
abuse is a phantom limb still covered in bruises. white coats and clipboards wonder how it can still ache when it is no longer there, infecting me with their doubts. sometimes it feels heavier than it did when it was a part of me.
depression eats at my weight until my skin is taut, boarding up my eyes and locking my mouth. blame has found solace in this blood, guilt mutating my thoughts. my potential used to live here, but abuse has a reverse Midas touch where everything that could have become gold withers in its hands.