My Crimes

It’s always been easy for you to write me off.

Stick labels to my name that only fit your perception of me.

Broken beaten and bruised,

at the hands of your words.

The outline of your fingers,

permanently imprinted on the front of my throat,

like a tattooed reminder of The pieces of you I will always carry.

But who am I?

Nothing more than a disgrace?

A daughter with no grace?

A disrespectful little bitch with no fix?

But who am I?

The jury is still out on that one,

but maybe,

just maybe,

when your gone,

The shackles will fall from my wrists,

and I will be free of the sentence,

I have been paying for my crimes,

and my charges will finally be read off,

for I have been a prisoner to your hostility for years.