I was frozen to the bed
When he reached inside me
With his hands and his staff
And stole something from me.
Yes, I was bleeding,
But he did not draw his knife.
It was fear that kept me immobilized.
His act, perpetretrated while I was mentally tied,
Has taken my ability to feel safe in my own body.
It has ruined dark corners and altered my mornings,
Left me feeling vulnerable and torn shreds through my psyche.
The **** of a partner ruined all intimacy.
His crime was not one of sheer physical brutality,
But an act of Mental Violence
That has forever altered me.

He should take care not to sunburn,
For he can no longer steal my skin.

They tell me to write a happy poem,
A joyous poem,
A lemon yellow sun and soft blue sky poem,
A hopeful poem, an inspiration poem,
An anything other than so much sadness poem.
I tell them my hope lies in the trenches
Where the muddy toil takes place.
My hope is *****,
Is often beaten down,
But it is resilient.
My inspiration does not come from blue skies.
It comes from watching strong women weather the storm.
My hope is inky black and pink underneath,
It needs armor.
Sometimes my hope needs a weapon, needs soldiers.
I am often fighting a war in my body,
And yes this war takes place under lemon yellow sun and soft skies.
They are beautiful,
But they do not make me feel hopeful.
My hope is that one day I will get to wash the mud off
And finally feel clean.

My life depends on the contents of an orange bottle.
Without it,
I am on a neurochemical rollercoaster,
Lap bar refusing to pull down.
As the apex of the loop nears,
I must hold on lest I fall and crack my head on the depression below.

I can touch my stability with the end of my pinky finger.
It dances on fishing string or careful drops in shallow water.
A deep breath in or a flick of my finger could upset the balance,
Sending me swinging again.

Her fingers dance across the keys,
Creating perfect melodies.
Next to her, I sit young and eager
To please my loving and patient teacher.
She coaches me on how to place my hand.
How lucky am I to call her Grandmommy Anne!

There is thunder in my bones where you lay.
Your memories dissolve like salt into a wound.
To this day,
If anyone calls me 'Red,'
I will rain down like the storm cloud you always hoped I wasn't.
My collective tears will burst from the dam
Until not a spot on your soul is dry.
I will tear out the tendons, remove the connective tissues.
You wanted to make me yours,
To erase the personhood until I was pliable for your will.
To some extent, you succeeded.
Your memories are stored in my body, trauma.
The bleeding is internal, is not visible, is just as deadly,
But I have staunched the flow.
There is thunder where you lay in my bones,
Lightning where you touched me.
I am tearing you away tendril by sticky tendril.
I hope you feel the sting inside you.
This girl is not your object.
This girl is a hurricane.
This girl is the end of your world.
There are words for what you did,
****** assault, ****,
But they are not sufficient for the way
My psyche floated out of my skin.
You counted on the scars keeping me bound,
But you had only started the storm.
I am a thundercloud, a lightning goddess,
Made from the sun, wind, and ocean.
You called me 'Red' like my hair,
But I am 'Red' like my temper, like fire.
Try me once more, and I will teach you not to play games
With young girls.