It's a process trying to pull down the caution tape
to stop viewing my body as a crime scene
to stop looking for all the little things that led to the blood spilt on my life
sometimes I still see it
my body lined in chalk
nobody but me to mourn the hopes and dream splattered on the walls
it's a process trying to accept that I'm not a forensic pathologist
that I cannot assess my cause of death
because I survived
but the years I spent
picking apart my life
researching every ache and pain
bleeding out
wounded and terrified that my case would go cold
that I'd be another file on someone's desk
waiting for the day they blow the dust off my manila folder
begging to not be another name on a list
the years I spent like this
they'll be forever imprinted in my mind
how my body tried to get away with the perfect crime
I am a survivor but nobody tells you how to move on when the crime you survived
is the crime of existing in a body that attacks itself
I am the survivor
and I am the perpetrator
and I don't know how to forgive myself
this is a victim impact statement
a memorial of the years lost
and a moment of silence for the girl I once was
because her pain is still mine and although now i know why it hurts
I can never forget what it felt like to be aimless and burdened by a body broken by its own refusal to function
and a world that turned a blind eye