You push me,
shout at me,
pull me around
like I exist as a form of playdough;
one which molds at your touch,
like you are my creator,
and I, just your masterpiece.

Like I am an object,
a toy,
some plastic, a bit of wire.

Even if that may be,
even if you reduce me to
be held in the eyes of a child,
is that all I am?
Am I not more?

Does a child not feel?
Not love?
Not play?

How is a child’s love any less than yours?
How am I any less worthy?

I am not a ball of dough.
I am not to be rolled around.
To be pushed;
to be shoved.

I will not let your words penetrate me.
I will stay guarded;
strong.
I will not unravel under the thread of your fingertips;
I will only be picked apart by my own.

Resilient.

Like the last breath of a flickering bulb,
those sweet sorrow seconds of a candle
right before the flame dies down.

I am a flame, and I will be fire,
and I will not be stopped.

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.

My feet
are burned and bloodied
with the dirt
from which i clawed
my way out of.
Every word
to tumble from my lips
might choke
on the teeth
lining my throat,
but i will still
spit them out.
My arms
may be scarred
with the cuts
of all the thorns
i had to dig through,
and my heart
might be back
in the grave you buried me in,
but I will still
stand in front of you
more alive than
you will ever be.

Pieces of broken glass,
Scattered colors,
An orange ribbon,
And a fresh red rose.

In a dark world,
where the light comes from only
within me,
and none elsewhere.
I limp with swollen feet
and tired eyes.
Tired of the betrayal,
tired of the failure,
tired of the hate.
Amidst the blinding pain,
and the screaming angels,
I decide to fly.
                                                            ­-storm-

The liver
Is a mother
It takes in the bad stuff
of the body
    (the **** that no other *****
No other person wants)
Clean things up
Sometimes, the liver fails
But, it can grow new tissue too
Mother's are resilient
So, ya see,
"it is always something"