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.