“Your parents raised you so well, you're so mature”. Adults say as they talk to me. I give a smile, I blush, and say thank you with a voice higher than my own.
My parents did raise me well, or I learned how to act from their actions.
The bruise on the right side of my head is still there even though it was hit almost a year ago. My toes still tingle although I'm not forced outside without socks on anymore.
My screams of plead and fear rumble in my throat as I hold them down with the tears scratching at the back of my eye.
I’ve only heard dad yell with true anger once, and he’s only ever hugged me. Mum’s yell echoes through my mind as I sit alone.
I remember her hands gripping my face and the pale outline of her joints on my cheek as I look in the mirror.
Her soft voice after the guns run out of ammunition, asking for a hug, and embracing me even though that’s the last thing I need. Her soft voice telling me she loves me, but never saying sorry.
Mum is a good person. I love her, but I will never trust her. I will never trust anyone, because the ones I love are the ones that hurt me the most.
Not all of my bruises are for the eye, but they hurt now, because I can never show anyone the pain of silence.
The fear of anger in eyes under scrunched eyebrows. Holding their right hand up, and their left hand gripping my shirt.
The cover of lies that come after the battles hug, keeping me quiet, keeping me safe.