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make it hurt
2003-01-30, 6:22 p.m.
Some days I cry in class. No sound just tears. Plop the carton bubble announces, as it hits the desk. No one is reading the print so the sound isn�t even made in anyone�s head. How judgmental they all are. How little they know. I wish they could be forced to see my past. I want someone standing there as she breaks the lamp into the side of my face. Yes, Mommy, I love you, of course I do. Please stop, ohhh it hurts, I�ll be good. The fits that land in the soft flesh of my stomach. I want them to watch me the next day as I sit down carefully, hold my back at at curve so that no one knows how bad it hurts to breathe when I straiten up. But no one ever wanted to know. It was my family, no of their business. My brother cries at 8 when he thinks he is going to get a spanking, he says he is scared. Dad is fair, they aren�t bad, they aren�t beatings. I know the difference. Nothing was ever done for my own good. Just for relief for them. Yeah fucking beat me. Beat me, mash me into a shape you can stand. And shit, how fucking old am I now, and we talk about domestic violence in sociology class and its no sound just tears. - adipose
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