He held her safe,
  much like an enclosed confessional.
    Mesmerized by a lustful tango of penance.

She was baptized in His sin.
  An angel, wings deflowered.
    Little did He know her
      confession would become His salvation.

She... an awakening redemption to Him.

My right hand is very good at it








You ask people

They say it's in between the sheets.

Real love is dead. We murdered it through death camps called elementary schools.

i have a flower
it is mine and unique to me
everyone has their own flower
so many, so pretty

some people, unlike me, give their flowers away
because they want to fit in
because they're easy to sway
or because they've been waiting for that moment

then there are those like me
the forget-me-nots in nature
yet they hold on tightly
not willing to partake in mercature

my flower yearned to see sunlight
to be kept within my protection was suffocating
to see what the flowers given away could see
was especially exciting

and so i loosened my clutch
to give my flower a few rays
alas, my flower was taken
an event in which my intentions betray

i didn't know him
he claimed to know me
justifying his theft on a whim
how could he?

why is it my fault
they told me "you didn't have to showcase your garden"
why am to blame for my floral assault
they wouldn't listen

and so, time has passed, i lie in my garden's dirt
they tell me i can stop the act, i don't
my tears are watering the soil, in hopes what i lost will return
but i know it won't

i'm deflowered.

Only seven years old
And I was no longer a beautiful rose.

Wilted, dying, deflowered.

But like a tree falling in the woods,
Do I even make a sound at all?

Too young to understand,
I never said anything.

But as I grew,
I felt... bad.
*****,
Unworthy,
Unlovable.

I felt that there must not be a single person on earth
Who could ever take me as I am,
Broken.

When I began to understand, I still said nothing.
And when it happened again,
This time by someone closer,
I knew what it was.

I felt betrayed.
I felt sick.
Like I had just done the worst thing any human being could have possibly done.
Like I was a failure,
I felt terrible.

Months passed, and eventually I got better, but not without my family
Taking note of that short period when I wasn't okay.
They never knew.
They still don't know.

That when I was seven,
I was ruined.
That, as I turn sixteen,
I fear the life ahead of me because of what they did.
That, when I see him, one of them,
And I hear him coughing and out of breath,
Alzheimer's taking him, slowly, not fast enough,
I wish for him to die.

That I fear every male I come into contact with.

That I lived with my tormentor.

That they took my innocence,

That it wasn't just one,
It was two,
And I remember every detail even though I may lie about it.

I might say "I don't know."
"I don't remember."
But every last second, colour, texture, feeling, breath, detail,
Is forever etched into my mind.