Monday, June 10, 2013

Bury Me Before I Start To Smell.

For twenty-two years I've been speaking. No one has listened. For twenty-two years I've been forced to endure and endure and endure, never allowed to express my anger, or sadness, or hurt. People have been allowed to scratch me, and punch me, and throw things at me. And nobody has stopped them.

And not only that, but the perpetrator of my abuse has been allowed to debase me constantly to others, to such a degree that people have had the nerve to reprimand ME for "maltreating" THEM. Nobody has defended me, or spoken up for me, or attempted to restore my name.

Maybe my time is over. Maybe this twenty second year is special. Maybe twenty-two is where my story ends.

Maybe it will be less complicated without me. They can keep pretending that you're a good person, and I won't be around to tell them otherwise.

I should stop expecting you to save me. I have a picture in my mind sometimes, of me slashing my wrists, and you showing up just in time. But you've never done that. You've never saved me. Never protected me. Why would you change now??

You won't. None of you will. Days will go by, while I slowly bleed my life away and go cold in bed. Someone will call me. Try to shake my shoulder. I won't move, they'll call for help. How could you not know, they'll ask? You'll make your excuses, all the while knowing that they're not true.

And I'll be gone.

I hope you miss me. I hope you regret ignoring me when you should have listened. You chose who was most important to you. I hope you'll be happy with her.

And I hope you never have another child. You were lucky with me. You won't be again.

You assholes had better remember that I wanted to be cremated.

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