Cigarette burns
A nearly-broken arm
Spit *****, sandpaper,
A face rubbed in the mud.

So used to all those other names
I quite forgot my own.

It was all dealt with differently back then,
Not really condemned.
I was made to feel that it was my fault
For not conforming
To social norms.
I brought it on myself.

I hid under the stairs
Tensing, sensing
Their approach
Anticipating spit, and pain,
Determined not to cry again.

They found me, of course
They always found me
I had nowhere to go.
The hiding places were easily unearthed
By jolly torturers.

Eventually, It was easier to join in
And self torment.

It took me years to ditch those angry habits
And some of them
Have never gone away.