Reading words helps to find the words

The ones lost in my brain wandering fumbling looking 

for my voice

To string them into coherence again.

I pluck my hair in the bathroom 

Carefully separating the shining gossamer silver

In front of the mirror, at 4 am

Defiance.

I have held anger in my every nerve for so long.

Anger at him for giving me this life I did not agree to.

Anger at myself for agreeing to live this life I never wanted

For too long

Anger at lost youth, the laughter I should have still had, the sullen terrified memories that fill my skin instead of

What could have been.

Instead my head is filled with white silver threads of anger

"wisdom" gained from raw pain and jaw clenching, soul ripping, self destructing forbearance.

When his grandparents used to use my towel, unasked,

They would leave behind traces of themselves in it for me to find.

Mostly white hair strands I would have to pull out, with disgust.

I would feel violated. My privacy, my beloved belongings tainted.

I was so young then. Naive. There was so many more ways in which a violation can occur. 

Body. Soul. Principles.

The grandparents passed on.

The towels faded, discarded.

The disgust remained.

So I pluck out each silver hair with unnecessary force. As if it is still theirs growing from my scalp. 

The only semblance of control I have left.

As if it will erase the pain. As if it will erase the horror that grips my heart.

As if...if I look myself, nothing would have changed.

The anger simmers behind my eyeballs still.

...

E