I am three. 

No. Four. 

No.

I am three.

Who cares, though?

“Let me out,” I cry, hitting the door.

praying it’ll open, save me. 

“If you open that door, I will beat you,” Maami says.

Her face cloaked in the shadow of the kerosene lamp. 

She picks up the blade, “Come here.” 

I see it, sharp, fierce, glittering in the dark. 

“Come here now.” 

“No.” 

My body presses hard against the door.

My little fist hits it. “I want my mommy.”

“I said come here.” Maami approaches, her gnarled hand holding a blade.

I sense pain, feel the razor’s slice, burn.

Know it’ll hurt worse than my young heart can bear. 

“This is your mark,” she says.

A protection from an ancestral curse I care nothing about. 

“I don’t want it,” I say. 

“Come here jor.”

I run; she chases. 

I scream; she smacks.

“Stay one place now, if not I will beat you.”

Slash! Comes the cut.

“Noooooo.” 

Slash.

More slashes.

Deep cuts as razor slices skin.

Blood runs faster than my tears. 

Pain rips my heart louder than my screams. 

Movement takes over my body, but her strong arms hold me down. 

It hurts. Please stop! 

Smelly potion hits my nose.

“It is your identity,” she says, rubbing on the scar that would forever define me.

“Your protection from the sins of our ancestors.” 

It is my rape, I weep, an imposition of culture and tradition.

A mark I carry.

A battle I fought not knowing who I was.