What are you supposed to be?

A symbol, a sign, something I oversee?

I used to be carefree,

I used to be free,

But, now, I am a prisoner to thee.

I thought you had wanted me.

But no, a distraction is what I’d be.

My vulnerability was not enough, would you agree?

I don’t understand how you can set me free.

The things I would do for you, I was a devotee.

Maybe you didn’t see what I had to offer, in actuality.

Don’t you ever wonder if there’s more?

If there’s someone more meant for you out there?

Head over heels
I stumble and I fall

The silence is deafening
Yet crisp, loud and clear

I like you
But I don’t mean to

I fall
Yet I freeze

In fear,
my eyes tear

I have nightmares
These are not rare,
nor are they fair

My mind seeks to betray
Yet we all pay

The shorts went first
Yet this was not the worst

Can this be defined as trauma,
Or as melodrama?

You wrap your arms around me
I shake at the knee

You proceed,
I start to plead,
begin to bleed

My body becomes tense
at my own expense

You take offense
Things become tense

You increase your breathing
I begin heaving

You buried your face in my hair
While I gulped for air

You tighten your grip
I begin to slip  

Is this affection
Or disconnection?

You held me down.

You forced my body into submission.

You grasped my hips, effortlessly guiding, gliding, my small figure across the examination table, paper crinkling angrily underneath as you slid me towards you.

You dictated how close we sat, pressed flush against each other, authorizing yourself permission to caress my bottom with your arm stretched behind my slender midsection.

You constrained the position I sat in. Placed at your convenience, I was incapable of moving as you curtailed any movement, whether subtle or obvious, away from your outstretched hands, which connected to a cruel and unforgiving skeleton of a man.

You governed the arrangement of my legs. You tugged my body across your bench, positioning yourself in between my legs. You hauled my legs over your own shoulders, granting yourself access to my ******.

You arrested my body, firmly planting your unbearably hot hands upon my waist, allowing yourself to connect our sides, flesh against flesh.

You controlled what I wore when I was with you, demanding articles be shed with a flick of your wrist.

You limited my motion. You loved to establish your claim over my young body, resting the palm of your hands in between the warmth of my thighs, squeezing in warning at any action that could potentially change your stake.

You restricted my hands from getting in the way of the roaming of your own. You liked to cup my ****** while I squirmed in discomfort and embarrassment, shrinking backwards into the material stretched the length of your table, wishing I could vanish, melting and becoming one with the plastic texture that lay beneath my slight figure.

You repressed my cries of anguish, shaking your head and shushing me, repeatedly promising the pain of the treatment would be worth the relief following. Now I understand that relief was sexually driven, and was not for the purpose of my pleasure, but for yours.  

You prevented my torso from lifting, arching off your board as you slid your finger inside of me. Your large hands firmly pressed down on my sensitive hip bones, ensuring I stay stagnant, giving you the opportunity to toy with my anatomy.  

You subdued any chance of my mother recognizing the signs of abuse. You skillfully hid my frame, placing your dominating figure at the perfect angle to disallow her view of the horrible actions you performed on me.

You structured the schedule of the appointments. You decided the duration of each visit. You kept me locked in your cage, in your presence, for hours and hours. You hid the key, confining my body and mind to your enclosure.

You killed any confusion I had when you referred to me as “sweetheart.” Your words put me at ease, knowing you doted upon me, and strived to do your best to provide care. Even at an inexperienced age, I recognized the discomfort you left me with, both emotionally and physically, tainting my view of men for years to come, yet your kind reassurements and long bearhugs kept me silent.

You restrained me.

I thought I was your sweetheart
but I received a beat heart

You doted upon me
I counted to three

One,
Two,
Three

The pain remained
and I was drained

I was left confused
bruised, abused and used

You thrived,
yet I only survived

I ask why,
How come
I must abide by

Your controlling hands,
Your dictating commands

I ask why,
Must I comply  
When I have red eyes

After unshed tears,
And many fears  

I ask why,
Do my adolescent thighs
Serve to satisfy

Your impure cravings
Your need for engravings

I ask why,
After years of outcry,
We were given the blind-eye

Ecstatic: laughing with friends, eyes glittering with tones of uncommon euphoria, stomach lined with freshly cut abdominal muscles from evenings full of giggles.  

My system fears the internalization of our past, yet the mind still seeks to betray. Abruptly forces us out of such pleasantry, aiding in tossing vast amounts of gasoline to an already raging fire of hideous, dark, horrifically realistic memories of our past.

The senses sharpen. The flesh is lit on fire, the soul is drenched in a bone chilling saturation of a substance colder than ice. The body shivers with frostbite while the brain blazes, searing until only charred remains survive.

What is felt is inhumane; too painful for a human to endure.

The shimmering reflection of joy once found in my oceanic eyes transforms into endless sorrow, feelings of panic so vivid and so cruel these emotions can only be described as being summoned from the pits of hell.

I remember his dark, unforgiving eyes, as they sweep for head to toe, focusing on my ******* for moments too long.

I remember his warm, tight grasp. The heavy restraints of his hold, my flesh burning from deep imprints of his strong fingers, easily overpowering my small, childish figure.

I remember the feel of his ***** ***** pressing into my side as his hands dig into the soft flesh of my developing hips.

I remember him. I remember you.

The heat from your hands compared to scorched ember pressing, digging, into my young flesh, held for viciously long cycles marked by the unforgiving ticking of time, mocking the unshed tears in my wide eyes.

My skin protested, screaming with notes of pain tinged with fear, not understanding how such warm, comforting hands could leave such agony.

You burned your engraving into my complexion, once pure before your disfiguring handling.

The scars you left behind scabbed oh so painfully, ripping open with the slightest of motions, creating gaping lacerations unable to truly heal.

These marks remain; a reminder of your torment to not only my skin, but the wounding of my soul.

A reminiscence of the trauma you caused me, I pick at these damaged pits, discontinuing their progress, permanently discolored my once creamy pigmentation and denying the return of my ivory coloring.

The heat of your hands left your mark on me.

The year my innocence was stolen by you, an evil man who preyed on the vulnerability of mere children.

Held me down when I squirmed in discomfort as you forced your thick finger inside of my ****** body, stretching me far beyond my limit. Silencing my frightened cries with assurements. You held my hand as you repeatedly slid your finger inside of me, telling me this unbearable pain was common.

Initiated a connection between us, that quickly expanded to include physical touch; a highly inappropriate action in such an innocent setting. You bent me over at my waist and pressed your ******* into my backend. My mom sat feet away as you fondled my rear.

Rested your hand on my nearly non-existent *******. You wrapped your hand around my waist, pulling me into your side. You draped your arm over my shoulder, allowing yourself to caress my undeveloped chest.

Talked with the utmost amount of charm. You warmly welcomed me into your office with open arms, to which I naively thought was you being kind. You referred to me as “sweetheart”. You told me I had a cute ****. You made me blush, but I did not notice how closely your eyes examined my being, staring at my most secretive parts with a gaze that penetrated clothing.

Exerted your strength, your power, your dominance. You physically restrained me, applying brute force and physical pressure upon my small body as I subtly attempted to create space between us, recognizing I feared your touch, yet not comprehending how sinful the actions you performed were. You controlled my movements. You ordered that I undress to undergo your treatment. I stood before you in a gown untied in the back, my ******* peeking through. You bunched the material of the gown above my narrow hips, allowing you to toy with the bow on the front of my flamingo-themed underwear. To think this was the most innocent touch you shared with my body as your fingers swiftly delved further, completely disregarding the cloth barrier that meant to keep you away from my most feminine structure.

Evaluated my condition by allowing your warm hands to sweep over my mound, brushing against my folds, pausing at my inner thighs and repeating this vicious cycle for an hour. Once you were satisfied you had acquired a sustainable amount of ****** indulgence, you enveloped my body into yours, hugging me tight before bidding farewell. Promising his sweetheart that the pain would lessen if I continued with his treatments.

Never will I ever regain the purity you ripped away from me. Was the pain you have caused me worth the pleasure you received from my adolescent body?

13.