It's late and I remember
I tell myself it is not true
I wish I could forget
But I do not want to forget
The pain that was real and felt
And worthy of acknowledgement
Because they did not believe it
When they were told
The truths behind the cuts
On her forearms
And cracked bone in her finger.
She did not want to hit print twice
But he forced her to reveal her intelligence.
He had put too much money into her brain
That he deserved to see an outcome.
She was not a person,
free to live.
She was his daughter,
A product of his upbringing.
She was a fighter and a suicide bomber.
He flipped her thoughts upside down,
But it helped her see more clearly.
Love was a funny thing
When locked outside your house
For not saying thank you.
Gratitude was a funny thing
When reaching out for help
Ended in shattered bathroom tiles.
But he was her produced.
And she was his daughter, suicidal.