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THANK YOU from my literary heart.
kicking. I’m frightened. She won’t look at me. Her head is between her knees,
the back of her neck gently sloping forward. She hears me but I feel like my
cries are silent. I scream louder. What am I saying? I have no idea. I want to
be seen. I kick her again. Shame. What a naughty little girl. What a bad little
girl. Kick. Scream. Cry and scream, the tears pouring down, my balled fists red
with sweat and tears as I cry and punch and kick and it’s never enough. For her
to notice me. The top of her head is like a stone. Her feet slightly pigeon-toed,
she moved them in towards herself once I began to kick and punch. I tried to
bite but I knew I would be stuck here longer if I did that. How did we end up
in this room? How did my mom decide to slump against my bedroom door, block my
exit, lock the handle. The ignoring was far worse than those details. Her
silent shaming. Of me. I am invisible to her. She wants me to stop, but if I
do, it will mean that she wins. It will mean that I have to let go of myself.
Give my own will over to hers, to theirs. I can’t win. If I keep screaming and
kicking, nothing will change. If I cooperate, I lose myself. I’m thirsty. She
won’t get me water and I’m screaming for it. My throat hurts now.