I Am A Warzone

I am glass.
Fragile, broken, shattered and glued back together, every crack; a river of scars.
Each moment that has passed, echoes in my head; a sanctum of forever remembering and fighting against the words of 'no' I never muttered.
Cold hands, blood surround me, in my ears.
The effects of two years, nightmares and jumping at small touch and intimate nostalgia.
I am a blank page.
Frequent battle zone of fits of anger and slamming doors.
A childhood of pointless screams that stretch on into wonderless silence, etched on the outline of a small and broken little boy.
I am the result of a distant woman and a strong man.
Words of hate have beaten me into submission, acceptance of my dire nature.
Anti-social, speechless, words escape from a mouth with no reason other than existing, always existing in perfect harmony with two half-parts of me.
I am tattered, unwanted.
Panging guilt for pushing those away, unwanted knowing that I could do nothing more or less.
Enveloped in violet colouring, like bruises. Reddening lips and pink cheeks, hardening screams and fast lullabys.
Lack of ability, lack of normalcy; asexual and burning imperfectionism;
I am a warzone.