At the age of 4, grandma told people I was a bitch.
At 8, I knew what it meant to be violated.
At 9, I knew what shame was, fear and guilt was.
At 10, I knew blackmail.
At 12, first love.
At 15, my own friends labelled me a flirt.
At 16, I knew what violation was again.
At 17, I was called a slut.
At 18, I got into an abusive relationship.
At 19, I slit my hand and used a needle to deface my left palm.
At 20, I walked out of his life.
At 24, I fell for my man who’d betray me to utter despair.
At 25, my family accused to ill treating their mom.
At 26, I came close to death
And finally at 27, I learned to love my life. I know it’s not much.
But I am still alive.
And my grandma was right all along.
I was a bitch and a tough one at that.