This is the Sky

When I start thinking about things too much,
My tongue tries to break through the divide of my lips.
I cannot hold it back,
Cannot protect its victims from the sting it leaves.
My father used to tell me that I become a different person with anger,
But maybe I’m not a person at all.
Maybe I am the buckle at the end of the belt,
The part that leaves the deepest impressions.
Maybe I am colored blue when you’d think I am red because
I don’t hurt like burn scars, I hurt like
This is the sky. 
The whole world, and you will never get to see it.
I hurt like the first time I was lashed to a bed post
And I did not question why I was there.
I hurt like I took the whip more willingly than the words
“I don’t need you anymore”
And maybe if he still needed me, I’d go back.

Years of starve and pills and vomit and laugh
Will not save you from what has already happened.
I cannot save you from what has already happened.

Lashing is when I told my mother I hated her,
Told the girl who was apparently me I hated her,
But I never told the man who did this to me that I hated him. 
Would I take it back?

Would I go back to those silent therapy sessions
And sit in that uncomfortable chair,
And this time would I talk about the lashings,
Or would I still become the sky?