I can always depend on my knife
to get me through the trauma,
as my mind starts regressing back
to that little lost girl who was born
fighting against the dark.
I need to be tougher on myself,
need to learn to stop crying,
to go back to the counting days
when I would count the red lines
as they appeared upon my skin,
instead of counting the beatings
I had received that day.
Suddenly, I see all of these flashbacks
buried deep inside,
and through all of those years
that I survived on my own,
that little child's choices
have now become my own.
