I write this crying

I write this as my mother screams behind me.
A secret you could not tell yourself. I thought about telling mother yesterday. To have an alibi for someone to understand me. I stopped myself though, don’t worry. I’ve started to fool everyone. But I could never fool myself. I view myself as a speck. So insignificant that my endeavors would do nothing. That is why I change nothing. I am only thirteen, why do I need to deal with this?
I write this wondering if I did something to deserve this.
My idea of fun has morphed into a disgusting monster of hope. I dream that one day I would be accepted. Live a happy life with something I love. You are the only person that I could ever love.
I write this noticing my eyes do not redden when I yell now.
My stomach sings out when I find the last of my hope. I tell my mother that my stomach hurts, an hour after our argument. She disregards.
I write this as my stomach aches for home.
I grew up with you as my true mother. I would rather have you than them. My mother used to shove soap down my throat at every word that she deemed was bad. My father would stand in the back with his eyes glistening. I remember you peeking out behind the countertops. I remember when you were short enough to fit behind the countertops. My mother would chase our brother in the house with a wooden spoon which she named the spanking spoon. She would make warm soup the next day with it. I remember young me eating the soup with a naïve smile on my face. While complimenting her soup, I thought mother chasing him around was funny. My small giggles radiated throughout the house. I was the only one laughing.
I write this wanting your home-cooked soup.
I was the youngest in our entire family. You used to tease me. Our eldest brother used to chase me down the stairs with a smile on his face until mine hit the cold hard floors. Then he would yelp for our father; knowing if he called mother she would yell. I grew up hating you two. Scared of you two. On a day I can not name, as usual, I yelled for my mother to help me. You two had tackled me. Mother came. She told me that I was too old now. I needed to suck it up. I needed to deal with it. Your two faces remained stained with teasing smiles, mine with horror. As a young child, I was terrified. My mother left. As I look back; you two would do nothing that hurt, you used to pull the pigtails that lay horizontal on my braids. Play monkey middle knowing that I was never tall enough to get the ball. I know my mother realized that, but that was when I realized not even my mother was on my side.
I write this knowing nothing has changed.
I want to share this poem with someone. Perhaps someone on the other side of the street will relate to this. But I can do nothing. I let everything be changed by the possibility mother might see it. When I am eighteen and I publish this, she will come and smack me. Coming back hours later with an apology I am forced into accepting. I have never forgiven her, and so here is everything I have never shared. I have sung everything in my heart out and polished it into something that I hope is as beautiful as my mother. I could never share this with anyone except you. Like a secret, I cannot tell myself.
I write this in a password-protected document, showing what my mother has done to me.