Scribble Me Words

Content Warning: This poem touches on themes of trauma, loneliness, and loss.  Image Credits: Behance Once, a little girl was left behind, Abandoned by a mother, unseen by a father, Ill-treated by a sister, pushed aside by  Those meant to protect her. And in that void of cold neglect, She found her strength in the spaces between. She fought through the silence, The empty rooms where no one spoke her name. She fought against the world that left no place for her, Finding scraps of kindness in shadows, Holding on to fragments— To the smallest whispers of light she could find. Years passed. She became a young woman, Fighting still, but now with different armour— Bound by vows, And with children to protect, In a marriage that drained her of breath, Where words were like chains, and love a ghost. She gave everything, And when there was nothing left, She gave even more. But the price of survival was too high— Her spirit collapsing in the quiet hours. Time wore on. A woman broken but ...

sitting across from her: "y ou are worthless." a being of disappointment, regret,  where there is light , you are the darkness.  sitting across from her:  " your existence is laughable."  nothing matters anymore, walk away. looking at her: " look away."  deep within you,  there is no peace .  looking at her: "there is no love for you,"  there is no one who needs you, alone is what you are .  standing up: "there is a tomorrow without  you," and years without you. a world that will still  exist. she walks away from the mirror.  

Image Credits: We Heart It The looking glass had been there for years,  Its foggy glass, a picture of distortment, Its ghoulish air, had poisoned her, Trapping within itself, the disfigured girl of eighteen.  She'd been living in that mirror,  A year less than ten, That glass of judgemental looks and polluted haze,  Had coated her in too strong.  Nobody looked at that disfigured girl of eighteen, Her breath never mingled with any other.  Her downcast eyes never found another's, They never even found themselves.  She'd never been good enough, She'd been their friend, Then there were the whispers so loud,  She'd begun to call them the gospel.  She'd never giggled at their jokes,  They said she'd grown big for her boots when she spoke up.  They said her clothes made her old and she,  She wasn't cool like them. Then those whispers became shouts, and she began to pray to them.  Her Mrs. Trunchbull body, Her golliwog appearance,...