cw: domestic abuse

Despite being a girl,
I’ve always liked
video games
with the

bright colors,
challenges,
stories, and
heroes.

I used to prefer books
as I had more imaginary freedom
over the characters and scenery
until I learned my mom was screaming for him to stop.

But really,
the sound effects in video games
are amazing.
I feel like I’m my character!

Moreover, the music
for this game
makes me feel like
I really can save the world.

If I can save
their world,
then why can’t I
save ours?

I’ll study well,
make a vaccine,
save endangered wildlife from extinction,
solve world hunger.

I want to be a nameless hero
just like my favorite characters
who do it simply out of responsibility
instead of fame or fortune.

If I just
leave
my bedroom…
Can I really do anything

if I can’t even
save
my mom
from one man?

"Save the galaxy by…"
My character chimes.
No!
I’ll do it this time.

I’m done being a little kid.
I’ll save her.
But
how?

No book
video game
or class
has taught me how to save my mom.

The feelings
are returning now.
Dread, agony, and disgust materializes
as I recognize my face in the mirror.

Silence.
There is no character theme
if I disregard the sound of my mom crying.
Instead, I observe the boring figure in the mirror with no sharp angles or colors.

He left when I was deep within the pool of self-loathing,
claiming he’d get himself something to eat
as us women haven’t prepared food for weeks,
shelves bare.

When I leave my room for the first time in days,
my mom greets me with a smile,
pretending like she wasn’t just crying.
“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Sweetheart,” she says, voice wavering.
I can smell him on her.
“Do you mind making him food to eat?”
“No.” I reply as I peer into the empty cupboards.

cw: ****** assault and suicidal thoughts

I want to combust.
Not into the traditionally red flames.
Red is my mother’s color; because, it’s
the one that suits her the best.

But the reason why I hate it, is that in a deeper shade,
it is the same color that runs between her thighs
and stains the bedsheets we clean
when men decide that they’re more worthy.

I want my flames to be purple,
the same shade I have been fixed on since I was little.
Purple like the heroine I always dreamed of becoming,
and the edges of my vision when I

swallow the cleaning products,
count out the pills,
pull the belt tight around my neck,
grow so furious with myself that I wish I was just dead.

When I told my mother I wanted to die,
she screamed at me,
“How dare you think you’ve gone through so much,
when I’ve gone through so much worse!”

That is why
I want to explode
into flames
that dare to justify my own right to pain.

But purple is the same color
I see around my little sister’s face,
concern in her gaze
as she whispers, “I love you."

How could the world be so cruel?
Locking a man in our home,
a man who tries to take away every piece that makes us whole,
and forcing my little sister to witness me in such a state.

I can’t live up to being a
college student
daughter
big sister,

yet
I can’t bear forcing my little sister
to witness her big sister
lifeless in the room next to hers.

When I go out,
I want to combust into purple flames
because I’m so
terrified, furious, disappointed.

Unlike the men who built the college,
I want to die
without a trace,
and my ashes to disappear.

I guess
nothing would change after I die,
except there would be more
purple little bruises on my sister’s heart.

But would I become
greedy, disgusting, memorable
because I would
leave her?

Leave her like our father
who forgot our birthdays
or when it was his time for child custody,
but could never forget his favorite beer?

When my mother’s boyfriend tries to break into my room at night,
I beg the flames to take me.
I’m too tired, hungry, and weak
to believe I have a right to my own body anymore.

“Traitors,” I whisper to the flames,
hoping my emotions would be strong enough
to ignite myself
and disappear.

But the following morning,
my little sister would knock at my bedroom door,
greeting me with a sleepy smile,
and sitting on my bed to chat.

How could the world be so cruel
to my little sister by making me,
the girl who can’t even protect herself,
her protector?

“I missed you.”
She says, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I just saw you before you went to sleep.”
I reply.

Suddenly
the purple flames that I once called traitors
remind me they were with me the whole time,
burning resiliently.