An innocent game that went left
Crazy how a game can change your life forever
I was only 8
Innocence gone forever
I was only 8
Grew up not cherishing me
I was only 8
Walls shattered like soft ice cream cones
I was only 8
Flashbacks that will haunt me forever
I was only 8
Self love gone
I was only 8
Everyone i was just “fast”
“A whore”
“A slut”
But didn’t know i was only 8
8…
8 more years go by I’m numb
8 more years go by nothing
A few more years and nothing
Time doesn’t always heal wounds..
All it does is help me remember
I was only 8…
About the Creator
Muvaa Bee 💛🐝
A 30 year old mom of 2 wonderful boys💙 i always enjoyed writing but i never got a chance to share it with the world… now i do 💛🐝✨
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More stories from Muvaa Bee 💛🐝 and writers in Poets and other communities.
Who am i ?
You laugh, You smile, you make jokes, and people think you have it all. A roof over your head, a car to drive, a job , children … people think you have it all.But when you look in the mirror you can’t even recognize who you are. You see the sadness everyday when you wake up and look in the mirror. Your eyes full of tiredness and hurt. You feel so ugly. Who am i right now ? What is my purpose here?
By Muvaa Bee 💛🐝2 years ago in Poets
making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskarabout 13 hours ago in Feast
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