I gathered what few belongings I had in a small briefcase, took one last look around our home, and stepped out the door. I never looked back. I never regretted. It was the smartest decision I ever made, I think, even if it wa(more)s a bit rash at the time.
Mom asks if I'll ever forgive You. I tell her 'I don't know'. How do I forgive someone who called me worthless? Who called me vile and unnatural?
There are some days that Your words echo so loudly in my ears that the only relief I can find is carving my own flesh with the scissors Your daughter gave me. I wonder how she'd feel now if she knew the scissors she hoped I'd use to make beautiful dresses now created mountains and rivers in the canvas of my skin?
Those are the good days.
Bad days are the days spent in quiet, paralyzed in bed. I watch the sunlight pass from one side of the room to the other. I hear my family laughing in the other room. I want to join them but my limbs won't move. I stare vacantly at the wall. I hope the light will stay just a bit longer.
I cannot get up to turn the light on. My body feels too heavy so I lay in darkness for hours until Mom knocks on my door and pulls me from the ocean I struggled to stay afloat in.
"You wouldn't feel like this if you prayed, honey."