A devil’s child

“You won’t leave without getting it right,”
She said
“why do you use the devil’s hand to write? ”
She asked

Sitting across the table,
She commanded, “write!”
Gripping a slim whip in her hand,
Slashing at my little fingers suddenly

“get the pencil in your right hand,”
“And write!”
Yelling in a midmorning ,
When then they played during a break

I peered through the window,
Watching anxiously,
At their smiley faces
When mine frowned,
And wished, I was not broken

I remember,
Onetime, sometimes,
On my bed
A pen and a paper,

With a pounding heart,
“you can do this”
Sobbing between the lines
As my hand froze,

And when it moved,
It was all wrong,
Why couldn’t I?
A devil’s child?

To hate school,
Its rainbow charts,
compound,
and beastly teachers

At home,
Just the same,
Being beaten into eating,
With my right hand

Stabbing my little soul,
with its broken spirit
That grew to love,
The person I am today

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