As a way to not feel depressed,
Or maybe it was oppressed.
The fifth grade was only a start,
As a senior I still feel its mark.
My mother felt the bottle or aluminum can was an escape
And AA did not help put her back into shape.
A functioning alcholic,
As we have learned to call it.
Then in secret my cousin had a guilty pleasure,
One that left me with scars too deep to measure.
I still feel his hands one me,
Some nights when I try to sleep.
Pens and paper were the only way to cope, you see.
It is really how I decided to take care of just me.
In addition to the art on my arms,
Legs, and stomach, my means of control painted with a brush of self-harm.
However, it was not just me, myself, and I that needed protecting.
Her innocence I'd always be caressing;
My little sister, two years younger,
Encouraged me to get stronger.
Her stomach over mine when they would growl.
She still eats well now.
But me? A full stomach and I feel disgusted,
Just another effect of abuse keeping me unadjusted.
Handed over the food every time,
I learned to push hunger out of my mind.
I stopped thinking of what and when I was eating,
And I felt my body slowly depleting.
Removed and given a fresh start,
These troubles have yet to part.
I have hopes to repair the broken,
And say words worth being spoken.
In my writings I remind myself,
It is okay to feel what I felt.
Between trigger warnings without warnings,
Making it through my darkest days without being self-scorning.
I try to remind my friends and family,
And the friends that turned into family,
That I am happier;
They've broken down my heart's barrier.