Fingers point in my direction just like needles piercing my body while their triumphant looks swallow up my little courage; they blame me for their fault. It is not the first time they pour all the scorn on me. Fear runs wild in my mind, stuffing all the words back into my throat: I did not cheat the exam. They make me a victim of their crime, carrying their stain on my name and body, and a villain of my own life, denying myself to live to the values they believe. I become a lier under their fists and mocking laughter: what can I tell my mom of this torn shirt; how can I explain to my dad about this broken toe? I have to wipe their swearing off my desk first, so please teacher just let me be; I have to pay for their food first, so my brother your gift should be later. What is made of these children? Are they made of the scars on my upper arms and chest or the bruises on my ankles and thighs? Their mouths must be carved by daggers, for their words sink so deep in my mind. Their eyes must be the gift of a ghost, for their looks haunt me in my dreams.