by Leah Stone
We do not belong to their sins.
Your Degree Makes No Difference To Me
They say we like what we like, we act how we act, because of what they did to us during our childhood; Since those after have not listened to our objections, and since we have been robbed of intimacy and gentle touch you say we are no deeper than our trauma? Yet, in the same breath,
"You are more than what they did to you,"
We are made of defective pieces; You see, our infected coping mechanisms are things you will never understand and much like things that are misunderstood, we will be debated into a simple explanation so our horror is easier for you to digest.
"It's all a product of what you went through,"
To assume the few things which bring our fearful hearts peace are only a part of us from their inflictions...How dare you? We endured to hear you, egotistically, elucidate who we are? Our art is our identity, we taught ourselves to wear our skin like a fine dress on Sunday evening, the debilitating nights spent bleeding ourselves dry to make it through the next sunset belong to us; Do not ever meet our healing and say we are merely a result of their tainted souls.
What do you know?