I am a ceramic piece, easily made, easily broken. Easily kicked, spat at, cheated, decimated, unloved. Broken hands, broken heart, broken soul. Do you know how easy it is to destroy a person just with a single glance? True power in reality is wielded by well sharpened words, not fists or knives. Murmurs, mocks, made of shrill and high laughter are what make the thin paper cuts etched in my skin. They burn like acid, and yet are small and invisible.
Do you know what it’s like to be me? Hollow like a shell, despairing like a nightmare. My life is like a nightmare, dark and scary, filled with demons that suck away my soul. It is my reality, instead of demons I have people who laugh and mock, persecute to pleasure their own desires. And what have I done to them to deserve this? Not once have I said an ill word, made a foul act, direct a dirty glance; yet here I am, the object to be victimized. An object, I say, because that is what I am, something disposable, to be used and forgotten.
Since the beginning they have mocked me, kicked me, scarred me, and now I am the twisted version of someone unknown. Here I am. I am the dirt at your feet, the trash you throw away, the gob you spit. How could I say otherwise? They have made me into what I am. I am fragile, easily made, easily broken. Will you break me further, too?