These bed sheets were stained with my battered and bleeding heart,
My dress torn.
This bed of mine was my captor,
I, it’s prisoner.
I fell victim to the prying hands that kept wandering between my legs.
It wasn’t love that brought us here, no.
It was my quiet mouth,
My clothes that fell apart between your fingers like wet sand and the screams I supposedly only muttered.
My innocence had been ripped from me,
Like a piece had physically broken off.
My soul,
My happiness,
My trauma.
You stole from me and it was priceless.
I lost a many of things to me but my purity was my own.