I am not a frightened child, who tiptoes to reach the bathroom door,
Because I’m bleeding and want a bath.
Too small to reach a door, and yet I know:
Sit gently into the water, too fast and it will burn again…
I am not the tiny girl, too scared to sit upon an adult’s lap,
With peeling nail varnish on my toes,
Who goes rigid, cold, at the rhyme:
Round and round a garden, like a teddy bear…one step, two step…
Tickle you under there. (not anymore, I refuse.)
I am not that child, biting my lip at your tearing rape,
Because I used the wrong milk, in your tea
No tears from me, until I sob:
As you hurt and break my poor my teddy bear.
I am not the devil reborn, and I am not Satan himself
My hair colour speaks not of my heart,
No ritual will spare you, no sacrifice will win,
I am not tied to a table, in my pink nightie.
I am not an object for you to consume and abuse,
Nor an object to carry out your sick work,
The blood lies only on your hands
I can scream, I can cry; I am real, I am alive.
I am not that girl, who sells herself in shame,
Tied to a bed, dazed, and sore,
As you groan in my ear and I think:
Will I have time to do my homework tonight?
I am not the girl you reduced to a grey number,
For months not even granted a name,
Til I was barely a human, a projection of your soul,
And a child who didn’t want to breathe again.
I am not the number you shouted, I don’t lie and wait in the dark,
Shivering and aching, pain lost in time
Was it nighttime or day now?
If I’m locked up, is it me that’s to blame? (No.)
I am not the fighter chained tight to rough walls,
Wrists bleeding as my screams choke me,
I am not the victim being tortured, wondering:
Will you rip, burn or beat me?
No longer am I the one counting the tools,
Thanking God it’s just three for today, and all sharp,
Because sharp heals fast, and blunt heals slow,
I am not the child begging for scalpel… rather than rolling pin
I am a woman, not just a survivor but a thriver,
A voice speaking out from the dark,
There’s a fire in my eyes never dimmed,
There’s fierce love in my heart never lost.
I am a mother, who cradles my lost children,
My arms heavy with the grief you have caused,
And I am proud of each of their souls,
I will fight for each child that is ever lost.
I am a singer, a student, and a writer,
A friend and a soldier of your war,
You cannot harm me with anymore poison,
I AM NOT 49184 ANYMORE.
I am not a child being abused anymore. I am not a number being tortured. I am not a teenager selling my body in shame. I am not terrified into stunned silence. I am not bleeding and scared of blood spoiling the carpet.
I am a survivor.