Secrets run through the roots of our family tree, drugs through the veins. Branches filled with women wearing black eyes with pride. "I love him" is an excuse, not a romatic exclamation. 

Baby bumps all around, no rings on their fingers, no man on their arms. Child support checks and government cheese.

Always on edge around him if he didn't have a blunt in his hand. Broken bowls and busted lips. Neighbors hear the yelling, they know, don't tell. My mother's eyes are brown with tinges of purple from bruising, red from crying. He'll be back next week with kisses. I give it two weeks to turn sour again, he'll leave as soon as the glass is empty. Is that what love is? 

The crushing weight of this life makes my shoulders sag, my spine curve and hunch, crushing my lungs. Can't get a peep out, it hurts to talk. They say "speak up", I think "fuck off". My mother never listened when I said to leave him. She popped out five more babies we couldn't afford, with his blood in their veins. My words don't resonate, don't matter, don't mean anything. I sew my lips shut.

I am a timid little girl, 17 now but still 6 on the inside. Scared of men, I flinched when my first love raised his hand to touch my cheek. His fists never reached me but his words stung like acid when he said I wasn't worth the time. I said "I love you" and found no reply after a year with our hands tied together. My words don't mean anything. I sew my lips shut.

What do others see when I walk by? 

Do they see the pain drilled into my joints, or just the face of a bitch, too good to talk to anyone?

Do they see the small glimpses of hope and longing when my tests come back with A's, a sign pointing straight to college and a better life, or do they see a try hard, nerd, loser?

Do they see the hurt in my eyes when I'm offered a joint, a drink, a pill, the same poisons that have devastated my family, or do they just see a prude, no fun, on her high horse, do gooder, bitch?

They'd see the flowers growing in the breaks in my bones if I told them my story, but would they understand? Would they even care?

My words don't matter. I sew my lips shut.