My father hit me.
Hands strangling my neck.
I was just a kid,
he said it was my fault,
I believe that it was.
He said I didn't deserve to live,
I believe that too.
I believe his screams
and the bruises he laced my body with
I believe his words
that I'm nothing
that I'm garbage.
I blame that monster
for breaking something inside me
that 7 years later is still not repaired.

I blame her for never calling the cops.
For calling me a liar
for telling me I gave the bruises to myself.
for making me feel guilty.
I blame her for telling me she wished I was one of her miscarriages
I blame her for telling me I'm good for nothing
for telling me I'm fat
for telling me,
like him,
I deserve to die.

I blame them
for the anxieties
and anger
and fears
and panic
and the scars on my heart.

I'm scared of the world.
I'm scared of it's people.
I need help.
I'm dying.
slowly.
quickly.
steadily.
and not at all.

I feel everything,
every word
every breath
is a dagger to what once was a heart
when every day
you're told you're wrong
you're told you're a mistake-
an inconvenience-
that could never be loved
it takes an effect
you cannot fight
and just when I think
maybe I can get better
a single word
sends me spiraling
dying
crying
suffocating
and scared
wishing someone would touch me
in a kind, gentle way
would hug me till I fall asleep
and love me
even though I cry a lot.

I was told
the blame was on me
that I ruin
and poison
everything I touch,
but I blame them,
so much so
I can't get better,
so maybe we're both to blame.