The floor tasted like a muddy afternoon
after three days of constant rain.
The cold from it climbed up my cheek
like veins trying to choke me.
She looked at me from her high place above me
as she stood over me, watching me cry;
my tears of hurt making a puddle on the floor
mimicking the rain as it poured outside.
I was down and she as kicking me,
her words punching my soul like daggers
I felt blood dripping from my chest
but none was flowing, I was hallucinating.
The floor was the bed of my pain but it seemed
that it was the safest place to be
because she still towers over me, this person
who is supposed to care for me, I am her blood.
The floor tasted like solitude and despair,
like I had no one else in the whole world
but in a way it welcomed me
I felt as if the floor was my only place now.
From this woman who now scolds at me
I came to be, in her womb I was created beautiful,
the blood that’s inside me once pumped through hers.
How can I escape she that should love me?
The floor tasted like a warm embrace from a stranger,
the once cold tile was warming my body where it touched it,
the eyes of my mother were fading in the distance
and I was fading onto the floor, and it tasted like freedom.