I can’t tell if the water running on my face
is from the faucet or from my own eyes.
The tears that tell what my words couldn’t: I hate him.
I hate him.

The blood on my arms tell what words couldn’t:
I have a secret to tell you.
The screams I contain are silent,
and hurled into the blanket in the middle of the night,

when the voices can’t harm you more than in the daylight.
The tears are hidden beneath a pair of glasses and soapy hair,
and the scars are hidden beneath the crooked smile and short stature,
giving the image of any regular, silly, fifteen year old with a few height problems.

their words on paper tell me what they couldn’t:
that they’re cowards.
their actions tell me what words couldn’t:
that they’re scared as hell from their sins.

their filthy hands have tried to wash the dirt away
the evil of their actions.
their minds have so desperately tried to erase
the fact that the person they did it to is still here.

my hands scratch uselessly against my flesh,
trying to wash away the painful memories,
my razor slices my flesh,
cutting away the feeling to have a reason to weep.

their faces tell what their voices can’t:
they hate the world they themselves have created.
their conversations tell people what they think:
life is hell, make it hell for someone else and it might get better.

my hopeful smiles tell no one what my voice desperately wants to:
I am an abandoned child who needs love and care
though my actions say that
I don’t need anyone in this world to survive.

but the face you see here today
is the offspring of fear and agony,
the result of two worlds colliding together unexpectedly,
and the consequence of a prolonged secret held in silence.