If I’m trying to fix myself,
logically speaking,
I should start at the source of the problem.

If hell is just a state of mind,
then demons are my open wounds,
and the devil lives inside certain humans.
He’s usually disguised with a smile,
the perfect words you want to hear,
bearing a trojan horse that looks like trust.

The first time I met the devil,
I was eighteen.
The physical wounds he caused healed fast,
leaving only one small scar.
It was his emotional scythe
that tortured my soul;
with slices that cut deep
and left me wounded.

My demons are the still-gaping wounds
that I thought bandaids could fix.
But I’ve found that substances
don’t silence the demon’s hellish screams -
they only drown out the noise
for a little while.

In order to free myself of these demons,
to escape my own hell,
to fix myself,
to change,
to heal;
I must peel off the bandages,
treat the infection at its source,
and let my wounds breathe.

I guess that means addressing
the emotional pain
that he carved into my soul.
I must process the pain I still feel,
the feelings of shame,
guilt,
worthlessness,
and dehumanization.

Real talk though?

Religious references aside,
fifteen years isn’t enough.
I don’t think any prison sentence -
no matter the length -
could account for the irreversible damage
he caused not only to me,
but also countless other young women and girls.

He doesn’t deserve my words.
But they are not for him.
These words are for me.