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I want to be confident but I dont know how.
Men have never told me I was beautiful.
They’ve never shown me I’m worth while just being me
I've always struggled with my self image. Constantly gaining and losing 20 pounds
I thought I had finally found a boy who genuinely thought I was beautiful
But boy was I WRONG! 

At 120 pounds my boyfriend called me fat when I was on top during ***
I rolled over and cried feeling so insecure
He just continued to **** me. Telling me I looked like a cow
He continued to degraded me whenever we had ***
This continued for weeks.
At 120 pound the same boy chose to slap me across the face so hard I fell to my knees.
Apparently telling him I had been ***** last week was somehow my fault.
To him I was now fat and disgusting
I started to believe him so I just let him beat me down.
At 110 pounds I was still too fat and he said I was disgusting to look at
He told everyone I was a ***** and broke up with me.
Now I can’t let a man see me naked without wanting to cry
I can’t look at myself in the mirror without hearing his words
And I sure as hell don't have enough confidence to stand up for myself
J Sep 29
i’ve went my entire life, imagining where my life would be right now, idolizing people who were my age now back then; when i was younger.

i wish someone would’ve told me the amount of hardships i would’ve had to face, so maybe i could’ve handled them better.

truth is, i don’t think anyone could’ve prepared me for what i was going to face, because every day i am still learning to cope with new inconveniences that make me stay in bed  for weeks.

i remember being a happy child, always laughing and smiling even though things around me were so corrupt, i never knew what true disparity felt like, those times were simple. times i wish i could relive.

now here i am, still young, but what some would call an adult; still dealing with traumatic memories of my abusive father, never being asked if i am okay by anyone, even though i am so helpful to all i cross paths with.

still dealing with feeling like i am the one everyone overlooks, romantically and platonically, because there is always somebody better in that moment, no matter how hard i give with everything i have.

someone once told me, “never let anything make you feel any less precious and pure.”

that is so hard for me to grasp because all people want to do is take from me, they dim my shine and they think about my feelings way later in time, not caring about how it affected me in that moment.

getting sexually assaulted the night before my 17th birthday, having to live with the memories everyday, that ruined my ****** freedom, my freedom to trust, because i trusted them.

this is technically not a poem, but as someone who has been through so much, in not even a full life time, i hope my words can reach someone.

maybe this was the universe’s plan for me all along, all i know, is my light no longer shines and my halo no longer exists; but maybe i will find it one day.

i hope.
ah Mimi
a Maio
'n' thier
Mazatlán post
card but
a Zapatista
de Chippas
si hombre
a pilgrim
this river
has crossed
in the
arms of
Creole but
women in
Porte Inglés
still swim
Horace Silver -Cape Verdin Blues
tinnnafish Sep 19
I think back to when it happened,
to that beautiful day that suddenly became so dark
The day when it all happened,
the day he destroyed who I was
Leaving me shattered.

I fought. I cried.
But it didn't matter how loud I was.
Nobody came to help me.

I still wake up crying,
Freeze when I see him,
And I’m still scared,
every **** day.

I still think I see him,
even while I'm safe at home.
I close my eyes and tell myself it’s going to be ok
But I can't help but feel him.

A year later I still feel him.
His grip on my wrists, the smell of alcohol on his breath,
The weight of his body pressed against me as I tried to get away

He just continued,as I cried.
It didn't matter how loud I screamed,
Nobody came to help me.
Arden Sep 18
There's an accordion door  
And now he's back  
He's here

But he is always here  
It's every birthday party  
Every Christmas  
Every ******* Sunday  

There's an accordion door  
And now he tells me it's normal
I'm special
This is our secret  

Cuz I thought family
Was supposed to be safe
I have been told  
That family is safe  

There's an accordion door  
And I'm back  
upstairs at my grandma's  
With my cousin  

Family is my safety net  
So what am I supposed to do
When my safety net strangles me
colorfulSmoke Sep 11
Wet hand
Stands on dry skin

Temple of the Heart hangs a sign
Reads: Leave Compassion At The Door

Wet hand
Dry skin
Wet seeds planted
In dry linen
I will never tell them
Of the man in hospital chair beside me,
Chest hair poking through blue paper scrubs,
More than was on his head.
His locks like dull gray wires on scalp,
Jutting into the air as if charged,
Leaving a shiny full moon patch of skin on top.
I will never tell them
The way his beard seemed to stretch as he bent my direction,
Joining forces with the follicles on his chest,
The way his breath seemed to steal mine as he occupied my space.
I will never tell them
About the man whose name starts with M.
They will know I could not look him in the eyes to see their color.
They will not know how old he looked when he stretched my way,
Voice barely audible over the din
Of other patients screaming and thrashing in their restraints,
Yells of babies ****** out under drugged hazes,
The wild fantasies of diseased minds.
They will not know.
I will never tell them
How his muscles flexed when he stood,
Shouting at another patient,
The fight,
His eyes seeking mine as if for approval.
They will know I did not look.
I will never tell them how he took my hand,
Mumbling into my ear about how soft was my skin,
Arms draped over my wheelchair, uninvited
As I huddled under blankets.
I will never tell them
How my best friend watched,
My teddy bear given to me at birth.
Although not human,
I regret my inability to shield her eyes from this abomination of a man.
She will know that I tried to tell him no.
She will know that staff walked by,
Blind to my waving hands,
Unable to hear the silent whoosh of air passing through my damaged vocal chords
As I begged for their assistance.
I will never tell them
The way he rubbed my back or traced my arm
Before settling his hands too high on my thigh to be polite.
I cannot say more here.
I will never tell them
About the ice in my stomach,
Flooding through my body,
Already numb to my circumstance,
Afraid that he would merely lift my withered body from my chair
And do what he intended on the floor.
No faith had I that staff were the slightest bit of help.
The interest of other patients in my voiceless body
Was a welcome distraction to the psychiatrist
Doling out necessary medication to those more dangerous than I.
I will never tell them
What he did to me in the common area,
Stuffed bear the only one present of mind enough to bear witness.
Therapist has a word for his actions,
Not one I had ever intended to apply to my story,
Something reserved for the unfortunate lot of others,
I will never tell them
His name like jagged teeth
Or the way his hands wandered without consent.
For in their minds I am nothing without corroboration,
And HIPPA law will prevent that.
After all, was I not merely a mental patient anyway?
Ashley Aug 30
The high pitch rumble of his voice still sends chills down my spine.
I remember his scent, like it was ingrained into my soul,
Copenhagen long cut and bud light.
He called me his “good little girl”,
Before he stole my innocence forever.
The sick salty flavor of his flesh,
The warmth of my own ***** dripping down my five year old chin,
And the harsh sting searing across my temple from his fist,
Three shames I will never forget.
Three shames I must forgive myself for.
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