Friday, June 11, 2010


Just as my scarred hands hold

these rails

so the tiny drops

of my faith make me live, too.

 I, who never asked for this blindness,

The scarring of my face and body that

erased my existence to the real world...


in fear of the stigma and of prejudice

hat bubbles from the mouth

of the community I was once belonged to.

I am a mother turned into a baby,

desperately dependent...

I am a teenager who forgets how it was to be a teenager...

I am a lively lady that used to enjoy the company of my peers...

A victim of vitriolage,

I am shunned now...

and relive the vivid memories that lift me

to another level of distress, of such agony,

that my mind almost shut down,

they called... a

psychologist for in-depth intervention,


A brilliant mind may give a hand

to restore my damage skin tissue;

surgical treatment...

Yet I will never be free

from the memory of such pain,

such punishment

nor will I be Me again...

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