I'm just a character in another paper back damn book, not a hardcover. No, the flimsy, poorly worded and grammar cheap book. With a little Clarence sticker covering the authors name, and when you try to peel it off, it gets stuck, yet another stupid fucking reason to stay away from it, to much work for a dumb purchase. Not worth the two cents, or the space it holds on the back of the bookshelf.
My chapter starts with a small child, birth right into a river of booze and abuse, a causal Sunday was the cops coming down to make sure the women who birthed me was breathing and ignoring the drugs and the man who had bloodied knuckles, the women who worked three jobs to protect three kids. Once it was her goal, she left the broken drugged riddled devil. The drugs didn't end with him, she became the one she tried protecting us from, the abused becomes a abuser and she threw me into hell fires, but they smelled like alcohol, and left a runny nose and a big grin. I clawed my way to reality in truth I became a whore at nine, the only thing I was good for, the only fucking thing I knew I could be, was letting men compliment my body, dating anyone I could at fucking nine. Even my mother's eyes went blind to the way her dad held me in underwear on his lap to long. Or the way the house was wrecked into a pig sty, cps, iss, cops, concerned teachers were nothing uncommon. Who knew the twelve year kid over dosed in the back of that trailer, which one of the four family members noticed the unconscious body with a bottle in hand?
The answers to the scars on my arms and sick mind was more drugs, they shoved them into my throat and I happily smoked it up, a twelve year old thought it was the coolest thing, another fucking breath into toxicity. I'm a stupid child, my mother cursed, I was a raised a whore, a druggie, a twisted child who only lived for sexualization, why did knowing my body was skinny enough such a happy thought? Why did seeing gore of a beaten woman, or a man with a gun every day for years become a causal weekday. Why did I try to save myself in the arms of a man who forced me into misery, over dosing like I seen growing up, I became nothing more the same. Though my intentions were to end the book there, I tried while I was laughed and mocked by a man I loved, manipulated like a pig I stayed. Ruining my own internal body night after night, the highs and lows took me to hell and I never got back. The way the ink starts smearing when this chapter was written is proof of the disease. I learned im nothing but a hopeless romantic but not for love, I crave to feel wanted, needed, as a person to know my future won't be stuck doing drugs in a battered house being abused like all I've known. So I cling to the ones who give me the time of day and yet they always leave, and I forever ask why? Am i destined this way, or simply not enough?
