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Myra May 2020
Sixteenth of September,
six days after my sister was born
was the first time I remember it happening.

Body in my bed, I knew that was strange⁠—
I had always slept alone⁠—
but I didn’t know if it was wrong.
In school the next day
I looked around at all the girls,
I wanted to ask if this was normal.

I was twelve and I could not be sure
my body belonged to me.
I read horror stories,
compared myself to them and said,
you have faced a fraction of the full range.
I said, you were complicit,
he never told you to be silent.

I am seventeen still reading
article after article and I think:
my father is not evil,
my father does not deserve to be behind bars⁠—
who will feed my family?⁠—
but I think I would feel safer if he was.

          I think about one night
when he asked, “ does it feel good”
and I felt myself disintegrate.
I am not sure he heard what I heard:
does it feel good when I am making your body,
in which you will stand
for the rest of your life, unlivable?
Does it feel good when I am desecrating it,
when I make it unholy ground?

At the trial of our sins I will ask
God what my body is, and He will say
“it is a trust” and I will point to you and say
“then he has broken it.”
Note: At the time of writing (2018) I was Muslim. In Islam our bodies are an amanah, or trust, that is given to us.
ari Mar 2020
your filthy hands
           gripped on my jaw,
your grimy fingers
                      forcing my mouth open
                            treated like a dog who won't let go of a shoe
ari Mar 2020
it is ok
to long for the childhood
that you never got to have
i cannot replace
what was taken from me
ari Mar 2020
i was
    a little lamb
               and you were
                      a wolf in sheep's clothing
and when i trusted you
         you tore off your wool
                 and dug your claws
                                  into my flesh
be wary of the wolf
emi Feb 2020
i beg for air,
and you still wont let me go.
emi Feb 2020
You planted a knife in me,
ten inches deep
almost a decade ago.

and I can't get it out.

you can only push it deeper.
and you still do,
without trying.
emi Feb 2020
I don't blame you; the truth hurts.
Silence must have been better than admitting your son was really a monster.
emi Feb 2020
Inferior. That's what I am compared to him.
He can do as he pleases while I am the mere thing he used for his own gratification once or twice.

But that's what happens when you give someone everything, and they degrade you after turning you into nothing. That's what happens when you're inferior. That's what happens to scared little girls. That's what happens when you're meant to fend for yourself. That's what happens, when from the start, you're nothing.
(An excerpt from my new years)
leyla Oct 2018
a child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort
from your breast pours narcotics and arsenic solution
your sickness passes right through me
flies mistake us for dead while we're sleeping
crawling in the spaces between us
your warm ***** sinks into my chest and it soothes me
let me be your sepsis and your withdrawals
angel bound with flimsy cassette tape
and immortalized in dad's VCR
poe Nov 2019
"****** purest," swims through her head, shes growing,
oh god, oh the sinking dread

unrecognisable, her eyes with the shame,
her blood poisoned, the toxins remain
pulsating through her skin, her brain

and when you eat her guts from the inside out
while shes crying for her mum

shes a good for nothing, good for nowt

and she tastes like blood and ***
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