there were occasions
when your forehead cracked
against the white tiled wall;
your cheeks swelled up from
the impact against the underside
of the porcelain wash basin;
your palms bearing red angry
lines and claw marks in tiny crimson
crescents, and those faded scar marks
decorating your once emaciated body?
Do you still remember
your hair being teared out
from the roots, your fingers
forced backwards with such
brutal force until you thought
you won't be able to write anymore;
your blistered back from the
simmering liquid leaking from the white
kettle, not to mention those blue-black
marks on your chest and upper thighs?
Do you still remember
those days you stood like
a statue facing a wall of whiteness,
your tiny feet with flaking soles
fitted within an equally small square tile
and you wondered how long to mealtimes,
bedtime to rest your aching body?
You continued to live through
the whole cycle again:
Wake up after being yelled at
to get out of that bed.
Eat.
Stand.
Being showered hastily because
you were like a disease to be
avoided at all cost.
Get lost and go to bed.
Repeat.
When people asked about
your scars and bruises,
you told them you fell
down accidentally and that
you were careless.
They must not know the truth;
you must not tell them.
One word out-
Bang!
You are dead.
One thing that you would remember
were the words that made you
feel worthless and a waste
of space, the screams, the
death threats, the insults.
Those were like knives plunged
into your battled body, deep into
your shattered heart, which hurt
more than those pains inflicted
in your weakened flesh.
You tumbled down into a deep
never-ending darkness,
wishing you could forget
and never had to relive
those memories again.
As if you could.
You couldn't forget so easily,
no matter how hard you'd tried.
So you continue to feel all
the pain,
except now you are the one
hurting yourself.
It's your own fault.
You have only yourself to blame.