You will look at me even if it is just to bury what remains
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When I was 8 years old, my father held me down and drilled a hole in my chest.

When I got home, I tried to fill it with water, and the rest of my family tried to patch it with tape, but it stayed. Never holding enough water to fill it.

And when I was 10, he made it bigger. And while he used hands to pin me down, he cursed my body for struggling. Cursed it for being so difficult and stiff.

And I thought to myself “how lucky am I, that he loves me despite.”

My grandmother was horrified, always trying to fix it. Always doing her best to make sure I had something to fill it, even if it never really closed. And this confused me. Why was she the only one who knew?

And I would lay awake and wonder what my father would do with those pieces of me.

But it started to fester.

They made sure to wrap me in layers of cloth. Made sure the blood and pus never soaked through. Soon I learned to do it myself.

And I learned that the hole would never close. I learned how pieces of flesh would rot away and fall off, and I learned there was no way to prevent it from consuming me. No point.

And there I was. A hole. A void sitting to eat dinner with my family. The cause of all uncomfortable silence. Of all disappointment. And how they stopped looking me in the eye.

So I’ve started tearing myself apart. Leaving bloody pieces like a trail of roses to my slowly decaying body.

I demand to be seen.

And they carefully step over it. Brush it aside. Tell guests not to step near my destruction, to not pay it mind.

Why won’t they look at me?

I’ve been so good.

I’ve done everything right, haven’t I?

Please look at me.

Please look at me.


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