my life

Both parents held me and kept hitting me while leaving the person that did it and started the argument, I couldn't say anything because they were hitting me so hard, I had scratch's all over my body, I wasn't feeling well that day, she hitted me and they did nothing to her but when I hitted back they both held me one slapping and on heating me, I felt like crying but I didn't because it wasn't worth it, I was on my own doing my own things when she came and started looking for trouble when I then talked back at her, her both parents came running in shouting at me and saying that I have a problem I'm always confused how I'm always wrong when I don't do anything and then they started heating me am not trying to exaggerate but that's what happened, my only source of joy is my babe even though he gives me a bit headache I still love him and I don't want to loose him because he doesn't know that he is the reason that everything looks worth it but my body hurts everytime, I keep complaining to him that am not feeling well but I don't tell him they hit me I don't understand why they always take her side but I don't care again it's fine with me actually , my life was like a story to tell but no one to listen, The only light she could still find was the person she loved. Even though their relationship wasn't perfect, he made life feel a little less empty. She never told him about the bruises or the pain because she didn't want him to carry her burden. So she smiled through conversations and simply said she wasn't feeling well. At night, though, the silence became heavy. She wondered why she was always the one blamed. She questioned whether anyone would ever see the truth. But somewhere deep inside her, beneath all the hurt, there was a small voice that refused to disappear. It whispered that what had happened to her was wrong. It reminded her that surviving another day was not weakness—it was courage. She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. But she hoped that one day she would wake up in a place where she didn't have to fear being hurt for speaking, where love wasn't mixed with violence, and where her voice would finally be heard. And although she couldn't see it yet, that hope was the beginning of a new chapter—not because the pain had disappeared, but because she had. People see me and think they already know who I am. They think I'm always the problem, always the one who is wrong. They never stop to ask what really happened or how much I've endured. This isn't the first time I've been hit. It isn't the first time I've cried for help either. Every time I try to speak, it feels like my voice disappears before anyone hears it. I keep hoping that someone will finally listen, but somehow I always end up being the one blamed. That day I wasn't even feeling well. My body already hurt, and all I wanted was to be left alone. I was minding my own business when someone came looking for trouble. I tried to ignore it, but when I finally spoke back to defend myself, everything became worse. She hit me first. When I defended myself, both of her parents rushed over. Instead of asking what had happened, they grabbed me. One held me while the other slapped and hit me over and over. I couldn't even explain myself because they wouldn't let me speak. When it was over, my body was covered in scratches, and every part of me hurt. The person who started everything wasn't punished. I was. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. It felt like crying wasn't worth it anymore because no one ever seemed to care. Sometimes I wonder why they always choose her side. Why am I always the one who is wrong, even when I haven't done anything? Why is my pain so easy for people to ignore? My life has felt tragic for a long time. Every time I think things might get better, something else breaks me all over again. There are moments when the pain becomes so heavy that I wonder if life is worth living at all. It isn't because I don't want a future—it's because I'm exhausted from carrying so much hurt by myself. The one person who brings light into my life is my boyfriend. Even though we have our ups and downs, he gives me a reason to smile. He doesn't know that he's been one of the reasons I've kept going. I tell him that I don't feel well, but I never tell him the truth about the bruises, the scratches, or the pain because I don't want him to carry my burden. I don't know what tomorrow will look like. I don't know when someone will finally hear me. But I do know this: what happened to me is real. My pain is real. My story matters. And even after everything I've survived, a part of me still hopes that one day I'll be treated with the kindness, safety, and love that every person deserves.