Every now and then, it seemed like she opened her mouth and two voices came out. The first being the voice of the masses. Critical, raw, unrelenting. “The world is a cruel place.” Terse, and unkind. The left over armor of generational regret. However, just below the surface there is a whisper. “I’m still here.”

Hiding in the shadows she waits for her turn. A little girl no more than 5 begs for her chance to speak. “Does anyone even see me?” She has been shoved down so long, her words only an echo.

When she was 3 they took her peace. Held her down, and forced her to bear their biases. “She is such a pretty girl.” Her future beauty was more important than her fragile heart. Hours earlier, her left cheek made impact with a coffee table. The Plastic surgeon told her parents that the numbing agent would make the skin “droop” and cause more scarring.

She had no say or control. At their mercy. She kicked and screamed as they pressed their adult hands down on her tiny frame. A blue straight jacket wrapped and velcroed. Her last memory of that day is pleading to be free, while watching her mother walk away, eyes glistening.

Why didn’t they protect her? Their one fucking job was to keep her safe from a world of men who will never know her worth. Did they know what this would do? I doubt it! I imagine they thought the doctor was right. Back then you didn’t question hospital gods. How could they have known that this would leave a hot brand, a searing pattern on replay. Creeping into every facet of her future life. Never feeling safe, seen, or heard. Seeking men who care more for her outer beauty than her intrinsic value. Needing to be the sacrificial savior. This wound triggered by other’s pain. She puts herself on hold every time. Swooping in to spare them from their traumas and consequences.

Cuz no one ever did that for her.