I want to scream, cry, fight back, anything.
But instead, I brace myself
for the hits.
And even though they are not physical,
it feels as if a whole truck
pummeled me in the chest.
It feels like
emotional murder.
Why are you yelling?
You know I hate it when people
yell at me.
It reminds of me of the way I yell at
myself.
I do not scream,
cry,
fight back.
I just sit there,
thankful my cheeks are dry.
My ears throb,
my heart hurts
so hard
my teeth are clenched.
"Stupid,
ugly,
useless,
unnecessary,
fat,
skinny,
whore,
slut,
unloved."
Just words.
Nothing more.
Surely,
I should be more afraid of the way
their fists are raised—
but I am a strange girl.
I shake, so fearful,
forever fearful,
for what they will say next,
because those are the things that make me hurt the most.
— lana
YOU ARE READING
Love, Lana ✓
Poetryyou're just a constellation; too far away to truly love, only to admire. » a collection of poems written through a blur of tears, memories, and quiet reverie. copyright @diamondsandsun
