These wounds are mine
I claim them.
I am the one that allowed
them to happen.
Opened myself up.
Engaged in the rage
50 years of my 60,
have only thought
how I could do no harm to others.
I was my children’s protector,
The worlds advocate.
Yet, I have allowed so much
harm to come to me.
These wounds are mine.
I push them back into
The darkness through
which they came.
That is how I smile and love
through each moment.
These wounds are my own
They are mine
They belong to me
******* for making me feel like I am not worth anything, for turning me into a walking corpse, constantly in search of someone to bring me back to life.
Who gave you the right?
Who told you that you could abuse me like this, that you could use me over and over again until I was of no use to you anymore?
How dare you assume that I’m yours?
That my body is yours to consume, and that once you had fed off of my soul, you could dispose of all the parts that you did not like?
You were supposed to love me. You were supposed to be my family.
Now look at us.
At each other’s throats because you couldn’t keep your disgusting hands to yourself.
“Hold still” you said. “Stop crying” you said. Your words ring in my head like never ending church bells, making me aware of just how messed up you made me.
I can still feel it. I feel all of it.
The coldness of the wall that you pinned me against. The pressure of your hands wrapped round my wrists, subduing my attempts of escape. I can feel your hands under my shirt, slithering up like a snake, then retreating downward. The surface that you threw me onto was hard, the impact equally painful and discouraging.
No one really knows.
They never will.
And I am determined to keep it that way.
The unkindness was done to us, but now we are the unkindness.
We are people turned victim turned survivor turned raven,
Grouped together to fight the evil we were violated with.
We are creatures of pain, and we are creatures of protection.
We are creatures of mourning, and we are creatures of empathy.
We are creatures of misery, and we are creatures of wisdom.
And we will croak, caw, warble, and scream
Just so we know we are not alone.
I am putting together and planning to publish collection of poems by survivors of ****, ****** assault, ******, or ****** abuse. If you fall into this category and would be willing to contribute a poem or two, please email it to me at [email protected]
. Please consider this. Have a good day!
Blood stained eyes
Gaze upon innocents sleeping form,
Malevolent intent spoils the promise of blissful slumber.
As naive eyes twitch with dreams of purity and grace.
Seething abhorrence guides twisted hands towards violent deeds.
Warm sweet breath exhales from un-kissed lips,
Wet with remembrance and anticipation
Of life’s wonders yet to be lived.
Horrifying screams from now waken eyes,
As an incestuous destruction of one’s self is committed
And the very soul of god is ripped from the now ruined vessel
Of what was once,
Innocent’s sleeping form.
For those who have lived the nightmare.
The flowered bed sheets of the motel where we lay
he showed no mercy on the Atlantic coast
used me again and kissed me.
I only remembered the oceans roll
and the visions of a unshaved beard,
the feeling of dread when he locked the door and unzipped his jeans.
Sandcastle fell over
and the sharks swam away
watching the walkway from the motel bedroom,
waiting for him to come back an let me out.
This is a ****** of a child's innocence and he held it over the seas the shadow of my life changes into bone
until my ****** becomes a whole other being,
so powerful it gave me an STD at the age of 11.
Thoughts are doubled in my head and the dark air has no name.
I call out for who may be there but nobody answers, only the step-step-stepping of my uncle coming in the motel for more.
My uncle used to ask often
if I had any boyfriends.
I realize now after
reporting him for
that he asked me that
question because he
didn’t want me