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One day i will be gone.

Then you will see. All of you.

I can use cryptic messages to hide what they did.

To defend myself more then anything.

I try to help people.

So they don’t have to suffer alone.

But the truth is you never stop suffering.

The volume gets turned down. But the show is still playing.


*******.
You don’t know me.
I will not forgive you.
K
RED
Red.
It’s not pretty on me.
Not lipstick.
Not Valentines hearts.
Not cute red sweaters or “you’re so strong compliments.”

My red is the kind that stains.
That sticks.
That screams when I try to whisper.
Red is the colour of being left.
Not once.
But over and over and over.

My mum?
Yeah, my bio mum.
She left like I was a book she stopped
reading halfway through.
But she still sends postcards.
Like that makes it better.
Like writing, “Love, Mum” at the end
wipes away the years that she wasn’t there
to love me at all.

Do you know what it feels like
to get a message from a ghost
trying to pretend she’s still real?

I don’t read them anymore.
I just stare at the handwriting and
feel nothing.
Or maybe too much.
I can’t tell the difference anymore.

Red is the rage I swallow
because screaming makes people
uncomfortable.
Because no one wants to hear
about the kid sent to boarding school at 11
like an inconvenience.
Shipped off.
Silenced.
Discarded.

Dad didn’t even fight.
Just handed me over
to a woman who never saw me as hers
and made sure I knew it.

Red is the silence between us now.
And it’s loud.
So loud it drowns out the sound of me breaking.

But the worst red?
The darkest?

Wasn’t just what they did.
It was what they took.
Two men.
People I trusted.
People who smiled at me like I mattered
before they ruined me.

I said no.
I said stop.
But they didn’t hear me—
because they weren’t listening.
They were taking.

And one of them carved a word
into my skin.
A word I won’t repeat.
Because it’s still there.
Because when I shower, I still trace it.
Like it might come off this time.
It never does.

Red is that word.
That memory.
That version of me
that I don’t know how to bring back.
Sometimes I look in the mirror
and all I see is what they left behind.

I’m still here.
Yeah.
Breathing.
Just barely.

But I think about giving it all up.
More than I say out loud.
More than anyone would guess
by the way I smile in hallways
and laugh when I’m dying inside.

Red is the part of me that wants to vanish.
That writes poems
because if I don’t put it on the page,
I might not survive the weight.

Red is major depression.  
C-PTSD.
It’s waking me up and wondering why.
Why me.
Why still.
Why now.

It’s wanting someone to hold me and mean it.
Wanting my mum to show up
in something more than postage stamps and pretend love.
Wanting my dad to say,
“I was wrong. I should’ve kept you close.”
But knowing they won’t.
Knowing they didn’t.

Red is the truth no one wants to hear.
The pain they skip over in movies.
The girl in the back of the class
with scars on her heart and skin
who’s just trying to get through the day
without breaking apart in front of everyone.

Red is me.
All of me.
Hurting.
But still breathing.
Still here.

Not because I'm strong.
Not because I want to be.
But because even though everything in me says give up,
some tiny voice
buried under the rubble
still whispers:
Wait.
14:53pm / If I could sleep through the entire school holidays, that would be amazing
R Spade Jun 16
Does my clarinet  
blame herself  
when she  

screeches?  

I asked her —  
careful  
not to press  
the wrong buttons.  

She hummed along,  
nodded  
like a good girl.  

(𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?)

I’m the one  
who blows  
down her throat,  
pressing keys  
until she forgets  
how to breathe.  

Her voice cracked —  
guilt hung in the air  
like smoke.  

"𝘪 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯,"
she whispered.  
"𝘮𝘺 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦."

I strike her notes harder.  
She chokes out bits,  
broken pieces  
that only make me angrier.  

Your wheezing is because  
you’re fragile.  
Cheap.  
Not because of me.  

(...𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵?)

"𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶,"
she sobbed.  

And I  
almost told her —  
𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝗱𝗼.

But the truth  
lodged in my throat,  
behind the breath  
that made her scream.
Latoya Legall Jun 11
One day,
I’ll stand in front of the mirror
and won’t look away.

My eyes won’t dodge
the reflection
of a girl who’s lived through too much
but still stayed.

I’ll touch my skin
without flinching.
I’ll wear softness
without shame.
I’ll trace every scar
like a map
of where I didn’t break.

The weight of their hands
will no longer sit on my chest.
Their voices will fade
into silence.
And mine
mine will rise.

I’ll love myself
gently,
fiercely,
with all the compassion
they never gave me.

And the mirror?
It won’t be a punishment.
It will be a promise
that I came back to me.

Not the same.
Not untouched.
But alive.
And healing.
ilo Aug 2021
Monty hated that lil red car
wanted to beat it with an ol' stick
beat the man in it too!
but if they ever saw him
they don't know what they'd do
couldn't take the risk of bein' a statue

red car in their dream
man mash them 'gainst the wall
trapped and in tears
monty wakes up yellin' fire
Kai Apr 2
The thoughts keep coming back
The ones that force me to remember
A few years ago
I had to endure
Your sharp teeth
Among my delicate flesh
Bruising my skin
When I kept telling you to stop it
When I kept trying to push you off of me
Screaming
Crying
Because I didn't want that
I didn't want you,
My step-sibling,
To give me hickies
Around the age of 9
I was scared
But you wouldn't budge
You just continued to create them
As if it was normal

You'd try to make me hide them
As if you painted black marks
On a board
And tried covering it over
With white
Every foundation we tried to use
Wouldn't be able to work
Because it was too light for me
And was dried out
And I would have to cover it
With my hair

I would have to live with the fact
That no matter what I try
To bring attention to
The hickies
You left on my face and neck,
No one would believe me
Or do anything about it
There was absolutely no discipline for you

Terribly tired of being your toy.
I SWEAR IDK WHAT HAPPENED BUT PLEASE DON'T COME AFTER MY STEP-SIBLING PLEASE. I DON'T SUPPORT ****** AT ALL AND DON'T CONDONE TO ANY OF THEIR ACTIONS.
Natalie Mar 17
It’s not one man running at the speed of light
But a group of them
none of them knowing the other

We know it’s not all men
But every woman has a story
How come?

You put 100 women in a room
97 will fall unlucky
HOW  come?

It’s not all men
But it’s some
And it is every women
When does it end?

It never ends
HOW Come?

Don’t dress provocatively they said
And yet even your not
It still happens
They ignore the no’s and the pleas
To continue for their gain
HOW COME!

so the fight continues
althea Mar 3
Strip me bare of my humanity
Only leaving the empty flesh behind
Does it disgust you?
Musk and desperation
Violating her girlish senses
That throat burned raw
Scraping against the red, hot, constriction
He embeds himself
In crescents around budding brown
Does it make you sick?
As they gawk and ravage
At the sight of the freshly butchered
Rising and falling then still
Sensual with vitality
Yet immature in her fruition
Rotting before she hits the ground
Does it satisfy you?
Empty, bloodless, pleasure
All in your tainted hands
Gorge on my womb
I thank God it is empty
No longer sacred by means
Of all the nameless before you
Finally, place proof of your presence
Your moment of my lifetime
And strip me bare of my humanity
Leave that empty flesh behind.
first poem!
Iska Mar 1
“What’s the harm?” they whisper,
“What’s the problem
in being everyone’s fantasy?”

“In having all of your friends
find your flesh attractive?”
“Having the pretty privilege
morph into the entitlement of others?”

As they claim my skin
and caress my bones.
Peeling pieces of my body
and making themselves at home.


Consent is implied
within the lines
of whatever bond we hold.

Friends, family, lovers.
What’s the harm in giving them
what they want,
what they demand they need.
In watching them eat you up
With a never ending greed.

“But you’re my fantasy”
as if I’m obligated
to the impressions of me
you’ve shoved down my throat.

Until I’m choking and sobbing
pleading you to relinquish your hold.

Your eyes leave imprints and bruises
as you salivate over a body
I don’t even see.
It was only 3rd grade.
Again, when merely rending
the damaged goods of a teen.
By the time I was an adult
it was the only way I was seen.

But age matters not,
when you were never perceived
as a human being,

simply a desire
for others to devour.

“What’s the harm in being a *** dream?”
They scream “we’re all friends here”
as they render my sobriety to shreds
Only to tell me that it’s all in my head.

Society taught me to turn a blind eye,
“what’s the harm?” It said with a sigh.
They drugged me with ignorance,
refuting my plea.

A passing inconvenience for you
Born of my own naïveté,
is a trauma memory
that I can never undo.

There isn’t a piece of me
you’ve not seen,
nothing left of myself
to discover.

You’ve rendered my own exploration
into nothing more than a detour.

You’ve taken every first
I could have claimed
and thought to beat a dog
was the equivalent of making it tame.
 
So now I’m sobbing into a void
wondering why I was ever
a thing that you could destroy?
What is left of me? /angry
When you were a kid, you had a favorite toy.
Be it a doll, a tiny truck, a car, a stuffy.
You did have one.

While you had one,
I was one.

I was played with.
Fed upon.
Made to be used and abused

Isn't it funny?
How some people are like like kids,
and Others are more like their pretty, little, shiny, toys.

"Oh mommy!" He would cry
"She is so pretty"
"So Cute"
"so wet..."

Malicious


I am not a toy
I am a real person
I am real

am I?
****** assault as a child
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