Nine

Then I was nine.

Choking,

sobbing even,

on the floor of a bedroom,

that no one cared to open.

Beating my legs till they're blue,

no one else will notice the bruise.

Or the broken skin in my palms.

I mean who really checks hands?

Shattering novelties of higher value than myself.

I know I'd never get them new.

Worth nothing to you like broken old things.

But,

here I am,

nine again.

All the scattered stuffies,

freshly bathed in snot and salty tears.

Must stay quiet,

they don't know I'm here.

Punching street lights after dark,

till my hands can't move.

The bruises,

the blood,

no one checks hands for harm.

Must stay quiet,

they don't know I'm not here.

I'll just keep beating myself till I break.

Don't want to feel nine anymore.