The Roses he bought me were as red as her hair,
and brought just the same despair.
The Roses he bought me were as soft as her lips,
The petals contained the curve of her hips.
The Roses he bought me smelled of her perfume,
like the covers in my bedroom.
The Roses he bought me pricked my fingers,

As she my heart, but she still lingers.

You seem to hurt my heart,                                                          
­Repetitively,                                                    ­                              
and the doctors say:                                                             ­         
                                       "They can’t bandage a word broken heart,"
   "When the bandage won’t  be able to fix me,"                              
This is when my body mutates,
Making it hard to breath ,                  
                                  Or really do anything,
This is when,
            My ribs,                                      
                 wrap around my heart,
trying to protect it from you,                                              
                               and while my lungs were unprotected,
and I was at a lack of breath,                          
                               ­  you seemed to take that,
with any happiness you could find,                
And I sat there,
        Shaking,
Then,                  
                 ­                                       Crying because it’s not even first period

At least twice it happened.
The first time I was five and the other I was nine.

Both instances I had no idea what was happening.

It was only when the risk became known to my younger sister that I decided to speak up and confess my disturbed past.

My Parents shredded their tears and rejoiced at their failing as guardians.

Could their rivers that run from their eyes help me now? They certainly couldn't help me back then when I was trapped in his bed. Cemented between his aroused body that was firmly pressing down on me or the unfamiliar scent radiating from the uncomfortable mattress that lay beneath me. I was five.

Could their pleas of forgiveness help me now? They certainly couldn't when I was sitting on his knee as his unhesitant hand crept higher up my leg, reaching to the buttons on my jeans and unwillingly entered beyond the waistline.  I was nine.

Can therapy help the fact that I hate men? How I despise the idea of love and coward away in a corner when I think of becoming close to someone. How about I can’t even be in a room alone with a male without welcoming on a panic attack.
I am scarred for life and no amount of pills or talk sessions are going to change that.

Don’t try.