It was a dark night,

the air was cold and her bed lonely.

She was 13 and dressed in different shades of blue,

her trauma painted all over her with paintbrushes passed down in her family tree.

Wicked and brutal,

the darkness filled every space and crevice of her room.

She’d shout the loudest but there was never anyone around that could hear her make a sound.

A curse, brewing inside of her blood.

Demons crawling themselves out of her veins,

haunting her each time they made themselves present.

It would take years before she’d learn to wipe her slate clean,

to banish all the generational karma,

release the shackles from around her ankles and learn to breathe again.

But it would be only then when she would realize that perhaps she had never been cursed,

just not loved properly.