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Laiba Sep 3
This may be hard to hear and feels like i am stating a streotype comment
But for all those surviors of ****** abuse
I just want to let you know your not alone
I know everyday is a sturggle to get out of bed
Constent worrying and pain
And the questions that wont let go
You just want to end it all
You think its your fault and even if the world was telling you its not your sitting there thinking Oh my god please just shut up
I understand that but just know its okay not to be okay
And i know you feel ***** and you want to hurt yourself,blame yourself
And even if i tell you dont do it your letting the monster win
It makes no difference
So what i am going to say is hold on tight i know the journey is painful
But once you reach it will be raimbows
The nightmares the flashbacks  i know its painful
I know it hurts more then anything
But i promise you that as long as your safe
No hands will ever touch you again
I know its hard and cry all you want
But once your finshed be sure to know that you can do it again whenever you want
Your not a victim you Are a survivor

But the truth is i will never know your pain
Nobody can ever guess what you might me going through
All you know is what your going through
But empathy is somthing that only works to an extent....
This is what i go through...
It has long been time to say goodnight,
The hands of the clock caressing my face, lulling me into secluded silence.
But I can still smell your skin on me, feel the bite of the binds.
And so the cigarette still burns. On. And om. And on. And the tears still fall. On. And on. And on.
Agony is telling the same story over and over until you believe it. "I'm fine, I don't think about it anymore. I'm over it."
And then you see something. Or hear something. Or read the ******* newspaper. And your name is never under arrest.
Maybe you never hurt anyone again. Maybe you only took my voice.
Maybe the cigarette still burns so close to my fingers that I have scars. Maybe I still wait for sleep. Maybe you'll catch fire to that bed dropping a cigarette. Maybe the flames will take you.
Maybe I can wait for the next time the pain will hit. Maybe I can smoke another cigarette.
Lainey Jun 17
The brave ones wield their mettle,
yet again not settling for defeat.
Retreat is not a choice!
Though their voices shake; they speak their truth.
Strong and weak.
Age and Youth.
This poem is about a friend of mine who is by her daughter’s side as she fights bone cancer
s Willow Feb 4
I know you and me are survivors.
An army of an old fife fleet.
We travel the land of freedom igniters
A race against the world.

Practice military confrontation.
The pain of being driven by aggression.
Living life without an occupation.
The people lack information.

My thought and ways of being ill prepared.
A final battle on the stretched barrier.
A letter from an openly declared
Followed by the voice similar to **** terror.
The Mellon Jan 29
My shoulder is damp.

It's been a rough week.

"College is tough kids"
Too bad they never told us it was never the work.

College is tough.
Because people are tough.

Because my friends sob every night because some
Thought she was his God given right.

In the span of three months 3 of my friends are *****.
Yet their cries are an empty echo down the presidential hall.

So instead they cry.

Last night one of them told me,
I let him get close to me... we were friends. Now I'm scared to have guy friends... even you.

So my letter is

Dear ******* Everywhere,

Next time you think about touching a girl without concent, how about you go **** yourself with sandpaper instead.
-The guy losing his friend because you decided her body was your property
Deb Jones Jan 8
Some people are ground so far down it seems that the earth is embedded forever in their skin.
But if you scrub long enough and hard enough you can eventually wash that ingrained filth away and become the shiny and brightened person you were always meant to be. And it feels wonderful.

For all the victims, both genders, that become survivors
Alex Smith Oct 2018
Who have I become recently?
A person who subjectively
Falls apart,
Or has objectivity
Become a lost art?
I am unable
To make moves
And to get better
On my own.
And people know this.
So I have faked this
False happiness
Long enough.
Let’s going back to crying
And suicide
And wanting to die
Because it seems like
That’s what I’m good at most anyways.
Amanda Stoddard Sep 2018
I wrote it on my wrists one year
and then again in the powder of pain pills.

and once more inside bottles
of dark whiskey that made me forget.

Since then I have not been close to a knife
without it feeling too heavy.

Since then I have not been
able to stomach medicine.

Since then the alcohol doesn’t
go down the same.
Just makes my eyes ache
and my chest feel heavy
the intoxication isn’t fun anymore.
just a warm nostalgia
of why I started it in the first place

Even upon running away
I am reminded of it.
Even upon coping
I am reminded of it.

In the steady up and down of my breathing-
I hear yours in my ear.

In the weight of cloth upon my skin I feel them there.

So what am I to do?
When you still ruin me
from the inside.

What am I to do?
When my own father
is invalidating at every corner.

What am I to ******* do
When his Facebook comments
are thrown into my face
as he uses the word “molestation” as an insult
as something I should be ashamed of
as something that doesn’t happen but only to deface men.

What am I do to do?
When around every corner
I am reminded of what they’ve done to me?

I. Keep. *******. Walking.
this trial has taken a toll on me.
EmilyBatdorf Mar 2018
My experience doesn’t matter,
it’s cookie cutter, the typical growing-up story.
Fending off boys and snapping bra straps,
Pushing off voices pressing in,
a pair of earmuffs I can’t peel away.
My eyes know to dart around,
To look behind that bush, find the most direct, most lit path
The casual-not-so-accidental grab at parties,
too strong arms reaching for a hug that I can’t break out of,
crushing me in, sweat and too much cologne muffling my breaths
and then, thankfully they come, my friends swoop in,
fierce warriors, my sworn protectors.
I find safety in their arms.
We are bonded by shared experience,
multiplying daily in number.
Stand up, brush off your jeans, and put your hands to work,
find your voice.
I am not unique in my experience.
Those strong arms dripping sweat and cologne will reach for someone else,
a lesson must be learned and we will teach them
Put our voices proud, project them to the sky,
let them fall as comets, spreading fire,
and bringing us warmth and light
I re-visited this before performing it at a ****** assault survivor discussion; I ended up changing the ending because the most important part of the healing process (I believe) is finding the hope that is left and gathering strength from others. Sooooo yeah :)
Philomena Jun 2017
if every tear could show the pain
if every sleep less night could bring me back life oh how wonderful that would be for I seem to wander in the night searching for my mind wherever it is that it has gone. I walk a dark and lonely road full of doubts and reflections that bring me nothing but chaos within for the answers I search for only you hold but what truth do you hold when you entered by body with no invitation and stole my strength to feed your own weakness now you parade with arrogance that came from cracking my heart open with your lies..such a dark soul that had never intended to love but to milk me for what I was worth then toss me like you so easily did.
I was ***** and wrote this a few months after. I'm struggling and just want it to all be over.
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