*The following has been submitted to me, and the writer has asked to remain anonymous. Names have been changed to protect the identity of those involved.*
I keep telling myself it’s okay to be angry. How could I not be angry after all the anger that my body endured from a man who was supposed to love me.
That being said…
This is for me, not for you.
From the prime age of nine, the words “I hate our fucking kids, I wish they were dead.” Curved and shaped the memory of my Limbic System. I don’t blame you for being mad, you did tell us to have the toy room cleaned by the time you were home; we just weren’t quick enough.
Age 10, quite literally over spilt milk I was kicked out of our home and slept in the tree house for four nights. I know…
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