Just as my scarred hands hold these rails
so the tiny drops
of my faith make me live, too.
I, who never asked for this blindness,
The scarring of my face and body that
erased my existence to the real world…
embarassed…
in fear of the stigma and of prejudice
that bubbles from the mouth
of the community I was once belonged to.
I am a mother turned into a baby,
desperately dependent…
I am a teenager who forgets how it was to be a teenager…
I am a lively lady that used to enjoy the company of my peers…
A victim of vitriolage,
I am shunned now…
and relive the vivid memories that lift me
to another level of distress, of such agony,
that my mind almost shut down,
they called…
a psychologist for in-depth intervention,
counselors…
A brilliant mind may give a hand
to restore my damage skin tissue;
surgical treatment…
Yet I will never be free
from the memory of such pain,
such punishment
nor will I be Me again…
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