I met a girl today, let’s call her, “A”.

She had brown hair which flowed down over her shoulders and back like ripples in a river of melted chocolate.
Her eyes were rich and sweet like pools of poured molasses.
Underneath layers of woolen thrift shop fabric, her lovely pale wrists and neck peeked out.
We spent hours together, inviting strong coffee to splash down our throats, and giggles to bubble up from our lungs like hot springs.

Through shared trust, she confessed to me that her pastel skin had once been painted black with alien brushes,
Her Hershey hair had known the touch of uninvited fingers,
And her cocoa eyes are forced to replay visions of unimaginable horror in color.  

But I could imagine.
Oh, sweet girl, I could imagine.

I live with a tumour of paranoia
haunting my social life
flaring up with small annoyance
in a world of violence and strife
my cautiousness turns to avoidance
and my irrational fear is rationalised

Cigarette butts scattered on
the floor and a stale scent of
guilty secrecy follows you as
you slip on last night’s clothes
quietly enough not to wake
him still nestled in a slumber
of *** and smoky shadows.

You wash your face with icy
water in the bathroom sink
and try your **** best not
to think about what was in
that vile overpriced drink.
it was his laugh that lured
you because it gave off the
vibe that he knew exactly
how to survive these lonely
long weekends and maybe
he could be your only friend?

And so the liquor last night
warmed up your heart and
throat which caused you to
feel sickly like you were in
an unstable rocky boat that
only he could bring to shore
and you knew from his grin,
that soon you’d be on the
sweaty dance floor because
boys like him want girls like
you to smile sweetly and sin.

When he asked you to come
back to his for a drink it was
clearly implied that he was
the kind of man who lied but
the ***** made you tongue
tied so you said yes to letting
him call a taxi and put his arm
around you like he wouldn't let
any kind of harm come to you.

But back at his sweaty stale
place your heart began to race
because you are not this kind of
girl who lets strangers take them
home and unsanitary hands roam.
Every word he said made you feel
like you were dead and holding on
to reality with a thin thread but he
was holding the scissors so you
were not in charge and now the
****** is still very much at large.

You gather up the contents of your
handbag  from the floor but jittery
thoughts are still scattered through
stained sheets and between the
soles of your ***** sweaty shoes.
Tears run down your face as you
take one last look around the room
to drink it all in just in case your
head starts to swim and spin again
and remind you of this chaotic pain.

You will shut the front door softly
so that he does not wake and cry
whilst biting your lip as you walk up the road with the odd sensation of
carrying a load on your shoulders
that makes you feel hundreds of
years older but not one inch bolder.

This is the denial of ******* and
knowing that somewhere there is a
tape which could change your fate
if he ever knew your full name and
wanted to play an evil sick game.
But it is not letting him have power
and control like he did that night
because you will put up a fight!

It is you going to the police station
and filing a report despite what
your friends thought and it is
making a statement in court to his
cowering face whilst he cries into
his sleeve and refusing to leave
until he looks you in the eye and
says your name because he never
once said it that night and you
refuse to be just another statistic.

It is helping yourself along with the
other women around you so that
you feel safe and not believe this
world is a completely broken place.
It is holding onto hope and giving
your sisters the strength to speak
up to say what happened wasn't
right and we will fight to be heard!


It is letting the caged bird fly free
and skinny dipping in the icy sea.
It is the moment of freedom you taste
on your tongue as you name
him in the court room and hear him
pronounced guilty but you are free.

you have dust in your veins
and a tattoo of a black flame
with your mother's name to
the left of it in messy scrawl.
there are ***** sheets in the
bedroom with your old blue
jeans on top of them as you
forgot them when you saw
that I wasn't the dream you
had once wanted so badly.
syringes and tears are strewn
chaotically around the room
and my body is littered with
the last marks you left from
a belt and a bad word or two
from when you thought I was
making a mockery out of you.
welts and bruises tell the story
of how you had assured me I
was a loser and you were just
doing what the next guy would
do so it was only fair to laugh
as I had screamed out of fear.
you were the ultimate betrayal
when you pinned me down in
the bath and held my head so I
could not breathe and said you
would make sure I was dead if
I ever tried to leave again on a
midnight train in summer rain.
it was a world away from who
you'd been when we first met
because soon the back of my
head was wet with blood and
I would always hear the thud
of your work boots that filled
my heart and soul with dread.
inducing panic and distress
was your ******* and so I got
the blame when the beers ran
out and there wasn't any money
until next week to buy you drink.
this was the world I lived in now,
a sick desperate shell of how I
should be except I am not free.
so another day will pass and I
will refill your beer glass as you
leer at me with yellow teeth for
my grief is what ignites the thief
of joy in your bones and makes
my body your undesired home.