Talking to myself.
You tried your best. You kept them safe too. You fed and clothed each other. You saw the brutality of your step father's fist, his belt, the furniture, the books, the lack of food and warmth and survived.
You survived his taunts, the photographs, the threats, the burns, the stabs, the electric shocking, the drowning, the loneliness of lock down, the games, the friends, the wrong kind of love, the humiliation and the unclean feeling.
You survived the streets and the gangs. You saw your brothers falling point, you didn't touch the drugs. You kept everyone moving, you watched the illness creep over your sister and you survived.
You survived the loss of everyone close to you. You came so close to self destruction but you came back. You did the drugs, you did the drinking, you did the self harm. You stopped. You survived.
You survived being face to face with your step father, years later. You looked into the eyes of the man that made you miscarry. It wasn't your eyes. You survived it. You survived the court when he blamed you. You survived their prejudice and felt secure.
Surely, if you did that, you can survive this too. But are you really surviving? Did you ever even cope?