I have become nothing
in the hands of my abusers
just skin cells
collecting dust under beds
I only remember the smell of.
Please don't look at me
I am only a fraction of a person now.
The other parts of me
linger on the bodies of those
who barely remember what they did.
Who smirk at the idea
because they got what they wanted.
I am scatter-brained and shattered
at the thought of them.
Intimacy trying to make its way
past carbon fiber memory.
Not once has it gotten through.
There are three faces I see
when someone is inside of me
Theirs, hers and his.
Each getting something they want from me
Stealing away what I once held so close and so sacred.
I never want this,
and I'm not sure I even did the first time.
Shouldn't it be special?
Why does it make my heart break?
Why do I not even remember
the way it happens half the time.
I remove myself from the idea of closeness
in hopes all of these ideations go unnoticed
and I sink into the bedsheets
Slip into the space
between the box spring
and the floor board.
My favorite hiding place.
Nothing but dust in my wake.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 1:46 PM UTC
I have become nothing
in the hands of my abusers
just skin cells
collecting dust under beds
I only remember the smell of.
Please don't look at me
I am only a fraction of a person now.
The other parts of me
linger on the bodies of those
who barely remember what they did.
Who smirk at the idea
because they got what they wanted.
I am scatter-brained and shattered
at the thought of them.
Intimacy trying to make its way
past carbon fiber memory.
Not once has it gotten through.
There are three faces I see
when someone is inside of me
Theirs, hers and his.
Each getting something they want from me
Stealing away what I once held so close and so sacred.
I never want this,
and I'm not sure I even did the first time.
Shouldn't it be special?
Why does it make my heart break?
Why do I not even remember
the way it happens half the time.
I remove myself from the idea of closeness
in hopes all of these ideations go unnoticed
and I sink into the bedsheets
Slip into the space
between the box spring
and the floor board.
My favorite hiding place.
Nothing but dust in my wake.
