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The first time it happened I was 5
I was lured by candy as children are
All I can remember is hands and pain
And being told to not remember
And I when I speak on it
All I can hear is familial silence
And stares that tell me to not speak up at all
When CPS came knocking on the door
I covered for him.
My mom asked me why
Why I didn’t tell her all these years
My response was simple:
I did the first time it happened
It continued still, you were drunk after all
I wasn’t the first he did it to
And I’m sure I wasn’t the last
It’s weird to tell people to not joke about ******
It’s weird to tell people my first experience was when I was five
It’s weird to tell people I remember
It’s weird to pretend I don’t

The second time it happened I was 15
With my first ever boyfriend
I was out cold, and he did as he did
I don’t remember much, but this
He’s checked my pulse and he bragged
For months I didn’t realize what happened
I could not register what it was
I told my mom, I could see she blamed me
I could see trust wane in her rise
I could tell she didn’t see it how it hurt me
I was 15 and asleep
He was 16 and awake
And somehow I blame myself
It’s weird to tell people I still love him
It’s weird to tell people I forgave
It’s weird having to tell people it wasn’t my fault
And it’s weird losing friends over it

Third time it was with my boyfriend again
I wasn’t asleep I wasn’t a child
I was scared
He held me still
I said no but he didn’t know I was serious
Tears slipped out of my eyes
I froze in terror
I cried for hours afterwards
I knew what it was, he knew what it was
I blame myself.
I told him no.
No. No. No.
Now I flinch when someone touches the back of my head
I am wounded
It’s weird to tell people it happened again
It’s weird I still love him after all of it
It’s weird to forgive again
It’s weird

They were hundreds of times between
Of men touching what they weren’t supposed to
Of I’m making comments about me
Coercing me
Making me a part of their perversions
Of believing flirting is ticket for their ****** harassment
Of making me instinctively hate men.
Victim blaming
I am yet a woman
It’s weird to not be a woman
It’s weird to be a talking point
It’s weird to be silenced
It’s weird.
Mackenzie M May 26
I sit alone most nights
abandoning all emotion
asking myself why did he do this to me...
I ask myself every night
as the darkness engulfs my brain...

As I lie awake at night to prevent the nightmares from taking over
I ask myself so many questions...
Oh Yes my dearest reader
I ask myself so many horrible

Why did his fingers reach for the forbidden honey
located so deep within my soul?

I have thoughts that fill my brain with darkness
Poisoning it
with toxic thoughts...
Destroying it
with the memories……

Why did his fingers reach for the forbidden honey
Located so deep within my soul?

I remember how His tongue was sharp with the words he said
How his words stung like the killer wasp of Africa
I remember everything he said
Each word cutting  my soul like a blade

Why did his mouth degrade me so?

I remember the abuse
How his His tongue buried deep inside me
It was like a maggot burrowing into rotting flesh
I remember it all

Why did his mouth degrade me so

Again I lie awake
As I trace the lines on my skin left by his fingers
I remember every touch
Every bruise he left behind
I remember it all

I remember the pain and the stress
I remember the agony of being trapped under his touch
and yet all I could bring myself to say was
Why did he degrade me so?
SiouxF Apr 17
How to tell when to take words at face value,
Not to misread into things,
Making two plus two equal five,
Not to analyse each word,
Expecting to be tripped up,
An ulterior motive,
A hidden agenda,
Sometimes things are just as they are,
At face value.
And sometimes not.
The trick is to learn when and when not.
Something I'm still learning!
Sarah Flynn May 7
every five to seven years,
the human body is able to
develop an entirely new
set of taste buds.

every seven to ten years,
the human body is able to
replace every single skin cell
with a completely new one.

this means that one day,
not too far away from now,

I will have a body that
your fingers never touched

and a mouth that never
tasted the bittersweet lies
resting on your bottom lip.

one day, not too far from today,
the feeling of your fingerprints
will no longer linger on my skin.

the photos of you will no longer
make my skin crawl, and
tears of shame and regret
will no longer form in the
corners of my eyes.

my body will be mine again,
and you will have no control
over any part of me.

my brain will be full
of only my thoughts,
and not the thoughts that
you trained me to think.

my skin will be touched
only by those who I trust,
and you will never be
granted that ability.

I will reclaim my power
and my sense of self

and one day, when I hear it,
your name will mean nothing.

you will mean nothing.
I will be myself again.
totally, unapologetically myself.

isn't that comforting?
cloud Apr 22
i try to remember
who's hand first touched my innocent skin
not my doctor or my mothers hand
the touch that on one end innocent and the other intimate
i try to remember who was first

somedays i can't stand the weight of clothes on my body
feels like soft hands
with ill intentions
with a motive
i can't stand covering up the invisible bruising

if anyone would listen
id yell
can you see them?
can you see the hands?
they rest upon me when im alone

the hands doubled and tripled
as my innocence swept away
i still don't now who's hands were first
who's hands have bruised me in places
blind to everyone but me
Mose Apr 12
Sometimes I still hear the snap of the belt against my skin.
It's why I still flinch when a stranger steps to close in proximity.
My heart often rises in a flight of birds.
Just trying to escape the cold rush of December.
It flutters trying to keep up with registering between fight or flight.
My feet often start running before I.
Often mistaking a pen dropping for a bomb.
Regardless I am gone before I ever arrive anywhere.
Half checked into a place I can never just leave.
My milestones are the intermittent fasting between therapy sessions.
We often talk of the stuff we carry;
but leave the pages blank on the things we must live with.
Arya Night Mar 31
The school building hates me.
It hisses every time my body
Slams into its lockers,
It forces me to pop the dints out

It complains every time my blood
stains it’s pristine halls.
It forces to catch blood before it leaks out.

It growls every time my tears
Burn it’s skin in the bathrooms
It forces me to stop before crying out.

I hate the school building.
Each day on its steps, I worship its doors.
Each day we promise a treaty.
Each day it promises to let me live
If I promise to get out as soon as I can.

The school building and I hate each other.
Sarah Flynn Mar 30
I watched her
open the mailbox.

she hesitated
before she did.

to anyone else,
this meant nothing.
they didn't know

that nine years ago,
she was standing
in the driveway
while her husband
was taken away.

under the glow of
red and blue lights,
she smiled thinking
that this was finally over.

there would be
no more bruises
and no more heartache.

she would finally be free.
she could finally breathe.

she had no idea that this
was only the beginning.

as the years went on,
the faith drained
from her body.

he was everywhere.

in her call log,
outside her window,
in her nightmares,

e v e r y w h e r e.

he wouldn't leave.

she didn't think that
she could ever be free.

but today,
I watched her stand
in her driveway

and open the mailbox
of her very own house

and read the letters
from the loved ones
that she was forced to
lose all those years ago.

the neighbors watched
as a random woman
opened her mailbox.

I watched as a woman
finally opened the
gate to freedom.
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