I was just a child when your words first cut me.

It hurt, but it was okay;

you put a band-aide on it.

I never thought it bad when you did it again,

another band-aide just covered it up.

It kept happening,

I still too innocent to think it wrong.

It wasn’t until I was older,

I realized those band-aides were poisoned.

They sucked away at my essence,

keeping me weak and non-questioning.

I’m afraid to rip those band-aides off.

It’ll hurt.

A lot.

I’ll feel like I’m dying as they tear bits of flesh from me.

Over time those wounds will heal,

the poison will fade away.

All in time.

It all starts with one band-aide

~This is a poem I wrote the night before I moved out of my emotionally abusive mother’s house.


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