Why do I talk about my abuse when I talk about myself? Am I more than my abuse? Has understanding the consequences of being abused unintentionally become self-defining? Does my abuse define me, as well as make me? Who am I without my abuse?
This is uncomfortable.

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Write to Kill

“I want to write to kill.”
These words are sounding in my mind, being fueled by the insatiable anger and anxiety I continually wake drenched in.
I am hateful, suicidal, murderous, aggressive, violent, reckless, hopeless, lost.
I am being dragged by my emotions again.
This I know.

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“Harshly illuminated in the darkness, I huddle in a corner before his downward gaze. I feel his compassionless stare, even through the distance.
My cheeks glisten, raw and soaked in my sorrows. Their stinging does little to distract me from his inflicted pain.
Hugging my knees to my chest, surrounded by his weapons, I fight the urge to run to him.
He is my twisted salvation.”

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