violets for violence

by Sarah Sutherland-Field

I am still burning.Each breath sets fire to my house of violet flowers.

All I’ve ever known is quiet kept tears.Thoughts I can only try to

slap, scratch, peel away from tearing skin.A picture burned into my eyelids,

a show to watch every time I close my eyes.Deep in my chest, under cracked ribs

is a little girl trying to stop the flames from spreading.My life ended at the blooming age of seven,

when I was too young to know how the word ‘no’ tastes. Because how did I ask for it?

In my purple pajamas with precisely four buttons.What gave her the right to take away my childhood in violet colors.

Gifted paranoia, like a limb I used to choke myself.Suffocating, until there is no choice but to speak.

To spill rotting guts all over the floor,and stain the carpet with the truth.

That I have no choice but to tell my mom,and with the tears of a seven year old,

cry while she holds me.

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