Why I Am

I do not think
That I am quite right.
Everyone has their quirks,
And me mine,
But I cannot help thinking
That perhaps my quirks are more.
You see,
My heart is bound
By the whips and lashes
Of the voices whose hate
Disgraced who I was and
Scarred my once clean wrists.
My hands are sullied
With my own blood,
Drawn  by my own blade;
The pressure exerted with the venom,
The venom of those words
That flow as easily as my blood.
They are burned, scorched
Into my being.
I am a branded consequence
Of their scorn for themselves
And each other;
And I had no choice.