Looking in the mirror
at what seems unrecognizable,
changed,
and no longer masked.
For my arms have been injected with ink,
skin pricked by needles, filled with metal,
yet not out of pain nor punishment,
but love.
The blind hatred that seeped its way
in my mentality
has been cut off, set to flame, and ripped from
its root.
I no longer believe the lies that
Little Girl would feed
my feeble brain, unknowing
of the pleasure to come.
