The Boy Who Was Blamed
I was twelve.
Too small to fight, too scared to scream.
And she was too old
Old enough to know better,
Cruel enough not to care.
She said it was okay.
That it was normal.
That I made her do it.
I didn’t understand.
But I nodded.
Because when you’re twelve, and afraid,
You nod.
Then she brought more.
Faces I didn’t know.
Hands that didn’t ask.
Laughter that cut deeper than silence.
And I became a thing
Not a person. Just something to be used.
I tried to speak.
To someone.
Told them what they did.
Told them I was scared.
Told them I wanted it to stop.
But I wasn’t believed.
They looked at me like I was filth.
Called me a liar.
Said I was the predator.
Said I ruined them.
Then the beatings started.
Not from strangers.
From the ones who should have held me.
Knuckles like justice,
Boots like truth.
And I believed them.
I believed I was sick.
I believed I was evil.
I believed I deserved it.
They carved that belief into me
With every bruise, every slap,
Every time they called me disgusting.
A monster in a boy’s body.
I would lie awake at night,
Staring at the ceiling,
Wishing I could rip myself out of my own skin.
I still wish that, some nights.
There are scars on parts of me
where the knives once pressed,
Marks from when I said “no,”
And they said “quiet.”
No one came.
No one helped.
No one believed the boy
Boys don’t get hurt like that.
Not by women.
Not by eight of them.
But I did.
And I still carry every face,
Every word,
Every moment I wanted to die
Because they told me it was my fault.
And maybe it wasn’t.
But I still feel like it was