Looking in the mirror, I thumb the braille of my history, sliding fingers over the raised narrative I had no part in writing.
Every day I see her handiwork and every day I painstakingly cover it to camouflage, just so people will look me in the eye and not there or awkwardly away. I don’t want them staring at the cover of the trilogy she wrote on me just in case I see a hint of truth in what she told to me.
I have torn out the pages of her diatribe of lies, erased the filthy archives that spelled out broken lives and wrote myself a masterpiece of triumphant recreation complete with colourful characters, spills and thrills, and endless adventures.
My ability to do that, paint beauty to my pain, saves me from living in her library of narcissistic rage. I am neither her victim nor her survivor but rather a creation of my own making, crafted from the pieces of who I was before her hate broke me.
Yet, in spite of inner recreation, I cannot change the cover, can’t eliminate that wrap. I can only hope I’m brave enough to own it as my own, changing it from my hidden fear to wear it as my crown. I ache to feel the sunshine kiss the fullness of my face and whilst I cover that stain I’m also covering my magnificent truth and affording her a part of me to own in shame.
I’m prying it from her knuckled grasp, today I’m taking back what was never hers to hold, that thing she stole from me when I was just two years old.
This is my forehead. These are some of my scars. I am not ashamed.