When I was little, I was made to be small.
My voice was taken, shaken, and broken.
I was told murderous lies
that forced silence
locked me away floating
above my body
in the dark corner
witnessing the streetlight
that bled my windowsill orange
while he crushed breath from my lungs
with the sour smell of stale beer,
spicy sour pine,
and putrified cigarettes
I was confused why they screamed
but I was forced to not make a sound
no matter how much it hurt
no matter if I couldn’t feel my body
no matter if I got lost in the night.
I prayed, one day,
that I’d be small enough,
to disappear altogether.