The Invisible Stain

visceral exploration of betrayal, neglect, and the invisible scars of childhood trauma.

Mama, can they see me?
I’m not talking about the scars on my arms or the tremble of my lips.
Not the fog in my vision or the quiet steps I take backward.
Can they not see it, Mama?
The sting in my chest, the misery overflowing from my ribs like blood..
Void of insecurities in the depths of my mind, or the weeds of sorrows growing against my spine.

How can they see me, Mama?
When I’ve learned to bury it beneath my tongue and speak around the weight.
When I was never taught to weep about the shattered pieces of my innocence lying on the stony floor of my childhood room.
Mama, when will they see me?
While they hold me down on a bed to strip off my frock and take my integrity like a glory..
Now, I fear the dark room down the hall, and every hand that brushes mine leaves me unsettled.

Father, where were you?
I was raised by your silence, and the absence of your kisses on my forehead..
When they reached for me and held my hand, I craved, just for a second, that it was yours instead.
Where did you go, Father?
Like playdough, I morphed and molded myself into shapes I thought were lovable..
But you never turned back, fixed pupils on the screen, more enthralling than your own young sap.

Did you hear me, Father?
When they wrapped their arms around my neck, and tears stung my eyes..
And their mouth bruised the white canvas of mine, engulfing me in smoke until I could no longer breathe.
Father, can you hear me?
I kept it quiet because I'm terrified of you, and the years I spent waiting..
I couldn't run to the arms, that not for a moment was open for me, never knowing it would hurt me too.