The Child

I’m not alone. I’m not a joke. I’m not afraid. I’m not a freak. I’m not a small pathetic wreck of a girl. Not anymore. I cant believe I’ve come so far. That my life though flawed, has transformed from from a dark terrifying fight to survive. I wasn’t the bold angry girl i am today. I wasn’t the one to go to for a hug, wasn’t the one to ask for help. Me? Oh I was the small pale girl in class that seemed to be too loud in class, and too quiet in gym. My clothes never matched, my hair always a tangled brunette mess. New bruises and scrapes always appeared. I was the freak that always smelled that was skin and bone but ate more than anyone else at lunch. This is who I was. Always afraid to be wrong but never failing to try. I was a child of abuse and neglect. Remember the kids that were smaller and shyer than the rest? I do. . . I see people young and old everyday, I feel strong and suspicion, and it bites at me in my mind. Constantly tearing into me punishing me with the questions. “What if they’re hurting like you were?’” “What if you could help?” I push it out of my mind every time and blind myself to the pain. Pale skin empty eyes that seem to hold a thin layer of lies. Lies of hope and joy. Thin broken body’s, beat down from fighting each and every day just to have your own self respect once more. They’re fighting and I wish I could help them win, but I won’t. Maybe I can help, but I won’t. . . I won my fight, barely survived, and now I’m fighting a new battle. Now I’m not trying to survive, now I have to learn how to live.