you kissed my scars alright, but your serpent tongue laid down a fresh kind of poison. a formula that threatened to create more harm than that which the gentle caress of your lips on my wrist declared to avenge

Pretty boy, singing your pretty words:
pouring liquid symphonies into my ear,
knowing exactly what I want to hear.

Stolen words, from a romance guide;
pried from the heart of your previous lover,
and some two, three, four or maybe five girls other.

Cooing sweet nothings in your honey voice.
It is not enough, a mating ritual parade,
because I’ve been there before and I know your charade.

Don’t you understand? - what you did to me.
Demon possessed or a facade dropped,
the memory: the pain, the anxiety, the shock.

What you want is untouched, an untampered babe.
Yet again, you devote your concert to me,
but I don’t want it and you don’t really want me.

I am stitched back together, corrupt by your hand.
Your photocopied scars adjourn my skin,
but the ink seeped deeper, obscuring your sin.

And you’ll never understand, what you did to me:
because you’re still a pretty boy, with your pretty words
and I'll deal with the trauma, my story unheard.

when I was 14 I was force fed contraception and never got a taste of an apology
when I was 14 the phrase "I'm not ready" wasn't a clear enough interpretation of "no"
so instead of presenting my case in front of a judge, I presented my virginity in front of a 17 year old boy.
when I was 14 I didn't know I was being ***** until a week and a half later when it happened again.
and even through my broken sobs and nightmares, my own father didn't believe me for over a year.
when I was 15, I was diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder because the distinction between love and tear stained pillow cases was nearly non existent.
when I was 15, I made the decision to drown the flashbacks in a sea of painkillers, and in what followed I met thirteen other beautiful girls who shared the same story I did.
when I was 16 I realized something had to be done.

for two years I hid a badge labeled '**** victim' under long sleeves and red eyes because I was too ashamed of what I let happened to myself to get help.
I was told I made a false accusation, when in reality the only fallacy is in our justice system.

**** is not always a white t shirt with specks of blood in the back of an alley or a drunk uncle with a wandering eye. **** is not always screaming at the top of your lungs and fighting for your life with a knife to the neck. it is not always textbook, but that doesn't mean it shouldn't be taken seriously.

No, I don’t have a boyfriend.

I don’t have the desire to see another end;
after exhaustive months of getting to know
a fictionalised persona, fragmented, so

No, I don’t have a boyfriend.

The last one hurt and you didn’t see,
but that doesn’t proclaim the scar less prominent to me,
my feelings numb, I no longer crave the intimacy - detrimental to me.

No, I don’t have a boyfriend.

The last boys touch was for him not for me
and my body still screams cause he won’t let it be
and you’ll never understand as the trauma won’t subside
and my self esteem is diminished by his lies.

No, I don’t have a boyfriend.

I humoured a guy who gave it a try
but all I could feel was nothing inside
and when someone bumps into me sauntering by
the unwanted touch still makes me cry.

No, I don't want a boyfriend.

but how do I explain to her that even though I know
that it's her hands touching me
I swear I can feel his?

How will I explain to her, whoever she may be,
that I will wake up at night screaming from the memory
of being pinned down by him?

I don't know how to explain it.
How do you explain it?

(d.d.b)

it's another early AM when salt tears splash my face,
they sting, but they are daisies compared to the swords I have endured with you.
it's almost half a year since you took what was not yours to take,
with your mumbled excuses and your dismissive gestures.
i brace myself, the pain looms again, i shout at it to GO AWAY,
the reminder of what you did, but it is a pain that paracetomal will not subside, because the pain is a memory;
the increasing anxiety, the thought of you inside of me when i did not want you to be there.
GO AWAY.