It’s striking-mesmerizing-

to see the contrast between

the different worlds that

humans live in

on the same planet.

While some fall asleep at the last minute possible

with kisses clinging to their foreheads,

others drift away quickly,

welcoming the one place

they truly feel safe

from their scarred arms, doped up stomachs,

and the belt marks along their backs.

 

The life of a child

can vary so greatly.

The love in a child

can suffer so tragically.

The joy in a child

can plummet so carelessly.

And there’s no way to reverse

the evil, horrific abuse

that’s tainted and invaded

the psyches of so many

who grow into adults

with bruised mentalities,

some wishing to inflict more pain

upon the world, upon others, upon themselves.

But I force myself to refrain.

 

The fists and the whips

speak for themselves

masking the love that

we thought we could depend on.

The silence in our hearts

drowns out

the shouts and the screams.

The fear of something worse

keeps us dissolving where we are

and soon there will be nothing left

of us but a body without a soul,

without touch, without sight,

without heart, without mind,

wandering through time, not alive

enough to call it life.

Numb to everything.

 

It’s the numbness that’s worse

than the pain.

If only I could feel,

but I don’t remember

anymore

how it feels to care

how it feels to believe

that I have something I couldn’t stand to lose

because I’ve been around the block.

I’ve seen my share of life

and if that’s what it is

well…

 

Why should I let it keep me?

Why should I stay in this vortex of despair--void of anything,

letting my story feed flames of fury into others,

setting siege to sympathetic beings?

Why should I?

Why?

The question echoes throughout the chambers of my skull each night,

taunting me in the dark.

 

Why should I let my story continue to burn page after page

when I could selflessly extinguish it

and leave the ashes of words for people to

mourn, to reflect upon and think to themselves;

“I'll help the souls

who are slowly draining like she was,

before it’s too late.”

 

But I don’t let go.

I choose to feed my story kindling so it will burn

ceaselessly into the night

sparking embers in eternity

flashes of nothing,

fleeting from sight.

Because if I leave, those people won’t help the others.

They never ever do.

That's why it's up to the ones like me

whose skin's marked black and blue.

The others don't want to help

without their glory shining through.

And I have truly nothing--

nothing to gain, nothing to lose.

 

It’s rooted in their ego

the primal need for validation.

And I don't know when but I know I'll leave

on the same leaf which I came from...

the one in the shape of

my

mother's

fist.

 

But until then...

this drive

this determination to survive,

protects and seals the bulging envelope of flaws

inside me that unite

and craft my vibrant beauty.

And because this beauty

is permanently outlined

by heavy, ominous shadows,

the contrast makes it radiate

so much brighter

so much stronger

so much braver

than any other beauty I know.

 

And I believe there will come a day 

when I look in the mirror

and see

a girl whose outside

matches her inside

but until then I'm still me.

And the bruised girl trapped in the mirror

might not be familiar on some mornings

but on those days

I start over

and learn to love the stranger looking back at me.

Because flawless or not, she is the only one I have

and each morning I choose life

because I love her

I love her 

I love her.