I sit in my seventh grade health class
*** ed freshman year
My twelfth grade english class
And they talk about ****.
They talk about it like it's an idea
A textbook definition
A rare shadow of society
That doesn't happen to real people
At least not people you know.
They act like there is only one way it happens
It's either a creepy forty year-old man who comes into your bedroom uninvited
Over and over again.
Or, as you grow up,
A boyfriend or date with whom you are, in their opinion,
'Stupid' enough to get drunk with
Passed out on a bed
Your clothes are like weights that anchor your heavy soul.
Maybe my form of abuse was different
As I was in his bed
Which felt more like a coffin full of spiders
As spirits plucked every last bit of life from me
Like guitar strings.
He was not a crusty old man with years of experience molesting children
He was my beloved fourteen year-old cousin
Who had struggled with Aspbergers his whole life.
I had looked up to him regardless.
How could I hate someone who was sick?
How could I hate someone who may or may not have
Understood the severity of what he was doing?
He only molested me once
But it molded my impressionable mind
Like silly putty
From then on I only fell for men
Who had bloodstained hands
And crooked smiles.
It is no wonder that at sixteen
Even after I had dealt with the aftermath of his hurricane
Another boy took advantage of me
And left me seldom sleeping.
It is no wonder that I did not recognize his abuse right away
Or that even though I knew he had wronged me
I would not call it assault.
It is no wonder that instead of press charges or tell my parents
I chose to avoid it
Confiding in my therapist only because I was backed into a corner
Treading quicksand all the while.
The harder you fight, the faster you sink.
After I told about my molestation at fourteen
My parents, although they were extremely supportive,
Told me to keep it quiet
Not to tell everyone.
Their intentions were exceptional
But they made me believe I had something to be ashamed of
When I realized this wasn't the case
I screamed at the top of my lungs
Shouted across the valleys
I was going to be heard
And when I joined forced with others who
Had dealt with similar events
Our ashes piled together
Created a smoke signal so vibrant, so immense
That people had to intentionally avert their eyes in order not to notice it.
We are not the bruises of society
For you to poke and **** at
To see how much our wounds hurt.
We are not for your corrupt education system
Your industry
That you can choose to use for your campaign
Just when our stories are marketable.
These stories do not all look the same
Different chapters
Different pages
Different font styles.
My story is mine
And I do not get to pick and choose
Take my assault off the shelf just when it looks pristine and proper
I live with this everyday
And just as burn victims still have marks that remind them
Of the incident
I still have pieces of me
That struggle with this event on a daily basis.
But I choose to use it in a way that makes me whole.
I cannot change the story
But I can change the ending
And I accept the fact that it will never be a porcelain doll
But it is my battle scar to show as I please
I am a survivor
That is my bragging right
And no one else's shame.

Are you proud of who I am now ma?
I think I've cut deep enough...
Into the flesh of our relationship, I think I've given up.
I'm tired of trying so hard to be crushed beneath the weight.
Everything I try and do, you seem to ******* hate.
Are you proud of me now ma?
I seem to be down low.
Lower than six feet underground, lower than you'd care to go.
All to make you happy, all to see you smile.
Just to be ditched on the street, to learn you had left for quite awhile.
I sat there wishing I had done just what could have made you stay.
But then I got to thinking, **** wasting my life away.
Then you decided to come back, messing up my day.
Why the hell are you back?! No one needs you or your ****
After all, you left me and I was the one who took your hit.
For many years of my life I tried to make you proud.
But here I am now, not worried what you think of me.
Because after years of suffering for you, I have been set free.
Don't you know it is wrong to put a little kid through that life?
Don't you know you should have stopped your child from picking up that knife?
How proud are you to know, your baby girl got locked away in a ****** unit?
I used to see you as perfect, but the last time you left me ruined it.
So now, just stay away from me, it's the least that you can do.
And see that I hate you, and you should hate yourself too!!!

I thought
We could be
Something--
When I say something
I mean instead of a "hello" or "hallo"
Maybe a good morning kiss.
Or twine your bilingual tongue
To mine and make sense of all the hidden
Messages and vowels in our
Passion.
Maybe we could
Link hands on long walks
Or swim in each other's eyes
With knowing, glowing
Gazes.
I just thought we could be
Everything happy for a little while
And everything that makes smiles
As easy as learning how to say
"I love you" in our two languages--
I know you already know, but I don't know how to say it yet
I just wanted to know an "I love you"
Which isn't foreign in any language.
I just thought we could be
Together.

But I guess not.

a permanent frost
has become me
and no matter what i do
i have become
infinitely
eternally
cold

A dream so vivid yet clouded.
This dream laid dormant trapped in its own prison.
scarred, my mind shrouded itself from the cruel world
I curl up in the fetal position
an innocent feeling such that I don't feel safe to curl out of
Here I go, off to live another day, knowing you are still out there.

Mortar crust upon my skin
from building walls too thin

to provide myself a sanctuary
where I can deny those who care for me.

I cannot resist my need to hide
So I lurk and recoil inside;

I clumsily regress into a crawl
as my tears remember how to fall.