My shame covers me - and I cannot hide from it. Hard to embrace when I don't want to think about it. I look in the mirror - I see it. A never-ending pain.
No one can save me from it. It scarred my body. It cracked my mental. It ruptured my heart. And I wonder if I can ever be fixed. Can you heal damaged skin? Probably not. This scar can't be covered, can't be erased. When I see it, I remember - every single day. And I don't want to remember. I wish it would disappear - release me, forget what happened, cleanse my soul. If I could be blinded from it, even for one day, I'd take that day and breathe in peace. The story is simple - let's dissolve into the history. A trip to a beautiful country - a woman waiting for me to improve her life. Conversations, playfulness. Were there red flags? Maybe. But I was blinded by beauty. A couple of days of peace, then came the arguments. "You're funny acting," she said. But I don't wear masks - I'm the same through and through. One night - meant to be simple - turned into the worst of my life. A bite here, a bite there - then one to my chest that burned and stayed.
A scream of confusion - no intrusion, just her. Then panic, a weapon in her hand.
A jab to my leg - blood and tears spilled together. Was there remorse? I'm not sure - tears filled her eyes as she panicked out the door. I was perplexed. A shameful trip to the hospital. Thoughts swarming. Memories loud. Never hit a woman - it's against the code I was raised on. I could have fought back, but what kind of man would that make me? The help I gave meant nothing to the woman with violence in her eyes. The demon inside her came out and wore the mask of victim, as if this was my fault.
This shame follows me forever. Tears leaked from my eyes as I lay in the hospital bed, trying to piece together why. But each thought only fed the misery. My family was hurt. Their worry broke me into uncontrollable tears. Every step I took after that was met with sharp, tearing pain - each one reopening the memory. Why did this happen? She'd say it was because she didn't want me to leave. But there had to be more.
This was the worst experience of my life - a bitter pill to swallow. Wounds delivered with intent, meant to break me, to make me submit. But I'm not weak-minded. I'm still strong, even through trauma.
So, I bleed on this paper, spilling the pain, until the page can hold what I no longer can.