The Result

These marks on my arm
Are the result,
Of a mother who said
It's my fault.

The result
Of a drunk with a gun,
And hate on his plate.

These cuts remind me
Never to go behind the building,
And to never give my heart away.

These cuts remind me
A grandmother can hate,
And boys are always loyal
To the woman
By which they are raised.

These cuts remind me
Never to feel,
Remind me
Hate and pain are real.

These cuts remind me
Of puddles on the floor,
My blood and tears
There will be no more.