It all started when I received the treatment.
The treatment for being disobedient.
Even if I was a child,
I was expected to behave adult-like.
All of this happened but it took me
Years to realise that I was a victim.
Have I been diagnosed or not,
I have a story to tell.
A story of an eleven year old
Who struggled her way through hell.
And as her story unfolds
Into something stickier than gel,
You’ll see her broken mould
And that of how she fell.
She was a child who never cared.
Whether it was the scoldings she got
Or the complexity underneath the layers
Of how the world and human mind works,
She was a child wanting to learn wonders
Not the boring kind of stuff called Responsibility.
Whether her lips busted after falling from a tree
Or when her ass got stuck in a bucket in her naked glory,
She was more than happy and welcoming to try new things
Which sparked her wonder, imagination and curiosity.
She was a happy child; wanting to learn more.
She was a carefree child; wanting to feel free even more.
Things took a turn when she turned eleven.
The one looking after her was impatient.
She refused to go to her tuition classes.
She was exhausted from going there for ages.
Everyday right after school, a two hour session.
Every Saturdays, a three hour session.
Her “care-taker” lost patience
And they took her innocence
With things used for daily purpose
And she grew up with no purpose.
Molestation can be a bitch to heal
Whether the victim is numb to feel.
She lost her trust to everyone
And as she grew up
None of her family took her seriously
And they expect her to trust them completely.