What do I do with all this rage?

My mother has been my abuser since childhood. When she caught me with the girl who taught me to kiss in daycare, I was beaten mercilessly, my sobs drowned by the whistle of bamboo. Bruises blossomed on my skin as I blossomed into girlhood, soothed by my budding breasts and burgeoning hypersexuality. My roots deepened in cyberspace, fed by chats with perverts that made my pussy pulse and heart race.

I learned to lie and manipulate, but my mother would sniff it out and hurt me worse. Winter is triggering; she would catch me in a lie, then take my glasses and shoes. Scantily clad, I stood on the stoop of the door shivering and blinded, knocking every so often to plea for warmth, to craft an explanation deemed worthy to be allowed back inside. I was only in middle school.

For years, I’ve suppressed the trauma, pretended I’ve excised the part of me I only show to the corner of my bathroom mirror. I’m so good at making the smile reach my eyes now, as if the sun rises on the summit of empathy and compassion.

It’s hard to admit that I’m a pervert, that I’m not an innocent like so many hurt souls posting on here. That I look into the eyes of others who share their trauma with me, and secretly want to tear them apart. I want to kiss their wounds then bite until I taste nothing but blood and cum. I read your stories here and want to feast on your tears.

I’m teetering at the edge of the precipice of anger, my eyes dimming with the shadows of these dark desires. This time, I think the sun will set on me for good.