Beryl Army Writers: remembrance

Reminisce and Latter Storm

I can still smell her.
 The fragrant, the popcorn on her breath.
 
 I still feel her.
 
 Her sharp, evil fingernails everywhere they shouldn't be.
 Her thick, calloused hands everywhere they shouldn't be.
 I remember the pain.
 His watch scraping against the scabbed-over, self-harm, razor slits on my hip bones
 as everything I protected was abused and stolen.
 Her fingernails.
 My throat.
 My sense of security.
 
 I can't get out.
 My skin is wound airtight around my bones.
 I want to slice it with a blade
 long, deep lines
 and step out
 and run
 sprint,
 never stop.
 
 I'm not pretty anymore.
 I feel bad for the woman, if I ever married.
 Too many times I've cut my skin.
 Raised, purple, flat, brown
 scars covering my stomach, arms, thighs.
 Word scars.
 Fat, ugly, dead.
 
 It was 18 months ago.
 And I feel everything
 and see everything
 hear it all -
 
 as if it were in the last 5 minutes.
 
By: Dolapo Adufe Akinola (Beryl YoungMoney)