When I was five I watched from the open space of my bedroom door as dad laid his hands on my mother's already bruised body and when asked why he did it, he'd call it love.
When I was ten years old I watched my Uncle wrap his hands around my Aunts neck till he drained the life out of her, since then I never liked being held.
When I was sixteen I took a friend out to a party and a guy who had no business touching her covered her mouth and silenced her screams and no one believed her when she spoke up.
It's not that I don't love you, it's just my Dad loved my mother too once and my Uncle once spoke of my Aunt as though she was his compass and the guy from the party gave my friend cute messages every morning...I love you but don't touch me for I know not what your intentions are.
YOU ARE READING
From The Attic (poetry)
PoetryFrom the attic is a book with thoughts and qoutes and countless poems I've stringed together with the scattered words in my mind. any
