It’s all there not to scare you,
but it’s all propaganda.
The smiling faces,
the inoffensive color of the walls,
so many empty promises of being gentle.
A smile will not make up for the years,
ten to be exact,
of being victim to your system.
You can’t put a smiley face band-aid
over the emotional scars of neglect.
And the scars on my tissue are a testament
to the way you tortured me,
the way I carry your mistakes with me every waking moment.
You have ruined me,
and I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for that.
How am I supposed to offer words of thanks
when you never gave me a reason to thank you?
I would rather spit on that cold, tiled floor,
letting the acid in my belly eat away at the linoleum.
How am I supposed to believe you
when you say it won’t hurt
when you never believed me?
Because little girls are not to be believed,
they cry all the time.
Their pain is to be taken with a grain of salt,
or perhaps the whole fucking pillar.