after the age of 9, i tell my mother everything. my mother asks why i never told her. she tells me we'll talk about it soon. the topic never comes back up.

i develop disgust for my body and hate for my actions.

i begin to zone out and feel ill hands brushing my thighs. i begin to hate the bright yellow shirt that i used to sleep in. i begin to call myself a whore and cry myself to sleep.

i look in the mirror for too long and decide to walk away from the glass that holds a monster. i stare at someone too long and curse myself for merely thinking such perverted thoughts. i punish myself with degrading words and sharp edges.

distinct sounds and visuals force me to loose my track of thought and instead drown in memories that rivet me in a state of depression and self-hatred. i hear M's name, and i stifle my sobs with an unbothered expression.

i find refuge in the pain of others and i decide to write. i begin to inflict pain on characters of fiction through written violence and hopeless encounters.

i hate myself.

after 6 years, i see M again. my mother forces me to hug her and take a picture. i'm forced to smile and M pushes me, only in a playful manner, but i almost lose it.

why would my mother release me into the hands of the beast that she knows occupies my closet?

M smiles at me, pushes me, and i force a smile back. but for the first time, the smile is physically exhausting. it churns my stomach and constricts my throat and leaves me feeling exposed. i do everything i'm told, and i leave.

i find others like me, who think the way i do, accepted the way i did, and i learn from them how to cope. i learn to use images and writing as a source of relief. i learn to hold smoke in my lungs and release it through my burning nose to chase away negative thoughts. i learn to lie in bed all day, paralyzed by a white pill that slides against my tongue like a cold, dry kiss.

i cope.

this story wasn't meant to hold a happy ending. that is yet to be found.