Survivor

Tattered. Strewn all over, like a messy room neglected by its owner. Forgotten. Tucked away, like a doll on shelf covered in dust. Broken. Shattered into a million shards, like a window after a baseball hits it. This is me. This is me before love cleaned me up, found me, pieced me back together and sewed up my holes. When I look in the mirror, I do not see the girl who’d hide under her bed every night, who’d lock her door against her father’s impure desires. I see a girl who has a family. I see a girl who has a voice. I do not see a victim. I see a survivor