Weak
I was weak. I was weak and I knew it. They told it to me every day. The first thing they told me when I could understand words.
"You are weak."
Day in and day out they drilled it into my head.
And now I live in my little shell. Waiting for someone to tell me I am strong. I wait for that day when the sun will shine. But how can it when I live in a concrete Hell?
"You have to find your strength yourself," she told me one day. She cut my hair so it was short and didn't hide my eyes. She dusted off my clothes and tilted my chin up high.
And I tried to believe that I was strong.