I’ve sat in this hospital bed for days
Wondering, contemplating, thinking,
Maybe I belong here.
Maybe I am as crazy as you say I am.
Maybe I was asking for it.
Maybe it never even happened.
But if it never happened,
Why do I quiver whenever someone touches me?
Whenever I get close enough to feel someone’s breath,
Why, every year, on April 25th
Do I feel my chest breaking, collapsing, tearing apart,
Until the only thing that’s left is the wreckage of my childhood?
Why is it, that whenever I want to tell my story,
No one wants to hear it?
And if they do hear it,
They sit in silence,
Watching my life unfold before them
Like the pages of a book.
Why am I always the crazy one?
But you? Oh, no. Never you.
Never the boy who destroyed, stole, wrecked, and broke down the little girl,
Who only wanted from life one thing;
How is it you that is the victim?
Of my words?
Defamation of character?
How about the defamation of my fucking body?
But you’re right.
I’m not a victim.
I am a survivor.
I am a warrior.
I am a fighter.
So here’s to you, victim.
Here’s to your sorrow,
And your hurt,
And your defamation of fucking character.
And here’s to your life.
Always playing victim.
Always claiming the pity, the mercy.
But never responsibility.
So here’s to you.
You may be a victim.
But now, I’m one step ahead of you.
I’m a survivor.
And that’s one thing you cannot take away from me.