Bad End Bæddel

You're the kind of Victim that other Victims abuse to bury their own sense of victimhood.

You are not your body. You are not your mind. You are not your past or your environment. You are not whatever sort of soul or tether you believe in.

YOUR BODY IS A WEAPON, A TOOL, A BLOODY CANVAS RIPE FOR CREATION.

You were taught to say sorry before you were taught why you are wrong. You were made to feel guilty for your presence and shamed for your absence. You were to be seen and not heard, for a child is property to be sculpted in due time at the whims of its owner. You will never be good enough to satisfy those who only ever loved the idea of you.

You miss the smell of kerosene on warm summer nights. The sickly sweet smell that seeps into kevlar as easy as denim. The excited drunken cheers as a staff spun around you, bouncing off body parts and launched high above, the flames your only light source. Always ready with a bubba keg of kerosene and a bic or two to start the party right. Taking turns, laughing with friends at the minor burns when you slip.

You thought you were a strong independent woman, embracing your Truth and the mistakes you made.