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**** jokes are funny.
it's funny that sometimes I can't sleep because i remember
and it's like it happens all over again
it's funny because it was an accident.  
he couldn't see me crying - it was dark
he couldn't hear me screaming - I didn't yell loud enough
he couldn't feel me pushing him off - I wasn't strong enough
it's funny because no matter how hard scrub,
my insides will always feel *****
it's funny because my pain is a joke that I guess I'm just not in on
**** jokes are funny
ómra Oct 20
i am a child again, spending every stolen moment in the company of the dried-up riverbed that stretches, lazy and old, through the ten acres of our desert land.

the arroyo is a mentor to me, a solace, and i love her dearly. she loves me too, and sometimes she brings me gifts: an old brass lion doorknocker, painted pieces of pottery, smooth stones. she catches them in her hands and leaves them at my feet, and i take them, and i tell her "thank you."

the arroyo is a protector to me, too. on her left bank is a small mountain, topped with hair of trees and scrubs-- this is is where her heart is, the old yucca plant with searching roots. she will keep me safe.

it was there that i hide, belly-flat on the ground, watching with animal-hunted eyes as he strides through the tall dried grasses in the valley below.

he calls my name, but i do not answer. i know what will happen if i do.

he is getting angry now, and i beg her not to give me away: please, please, please, don't let him see me. don't look up.

i pray to the ages-old spirit of a long-gone river and she hears me, a thousand miles and a thousand years in the past, and her anger is strong.

mother nature does not take kindly to men who hurt little girls-- but the arroyo is old, and tired, and all she can do is hide me away, tuck me into her twists and turns. give me yet another gift.

he does not look up. i am safe-- the arroyo is my protector, and she teaches me the most powerful lesson of all:

he is not omnipotent. he doesn't see into my mind. he is not all-knowing, all-doing-- this seed the arroyo plants in my mind, and she cultivates it. carefully, carefully. slowly.

this is the knowedge that saves me, years later, when i finally pick up the phone and call the police-- after all, an arroyo is one who is very well aquainted with the patience and difficulties in nursing life in harsh conditions.
she taught me so many things and even now i am grateful to her for that one bright, searing memory of his eyes sliding past me, unseeing-- for giving me the gift of an evening with no time spent on his lap
sarabande Oct 9
i can't look her in the eyes
she means the world to me
but in blue irises come memories
repressed, forgotten, unwanted

his were a clear, vibrant sky
beautiful, even picturesque
but he wanted so much more
than flattery and a late-night dance

he met me at a baseball field
"it's just a date, don't be so nervous!"
"it's raining," i argued. "it's cold."
"i can fix that for you"

and my jacket came off
my shoes, sopping wet
my top, clinging to my skin
my pants, a barrier

but then i was warm with him
my lips, my ****, between my legs
it was angry, like a raging wildfire
and his touch burned me alive

he moved away not long after
the desecration of my body
i have no clue where he is
but i hate the color of her eyes
Megan Oct 1
Early Sunday morning.
Brisk wind, no jacket.
Waiting for a taxi,
shivers in my bones.
Shameful looks from my mother -
she thinks I stopped out last night.

Monday afternoon.
The whole school knows.
Taunts, laughter, names
as I walk through the corridors -
isn't school supposed to be safe?
I see the boys
- I hate them, I hate them, I hate them -
feel ***** rise through my throat
and the blood in my brain thicken.
Hear words that cut like knives:
"****", "*****",
"I can't believe she had a foursome".
I cannot walk into the canteen,
it's full of piercing lion eyes
searching for their prey;
I am called into the head of years office,
heavy footsteps echoing with sorrow
as I enter.
Concerned eyes break through my skin
creating bullet holes in my fragility.
The words I couldn't face
finally enter the wind.
"Was it consensual?"
No, no, no, no.
Cheeks wet with cascading tears.
The truth finally said,
spoken aloud like an oracle.
I wait for fifty minutes.
Fluorescent police uniforms march the halls.
And my mother.
She's crying, she knows,
she hugs me.
Tells me she's sorry.
In the small back office
surrounded by teachers and police and my mum,
words are exchanged.
I see moving lips but cannot hear the words.
My senses are drowned by the event leading up to this.
They gave me a name
in the bedroom that night.
"It", like an object.
Unhuman, unfeeling.

The same Monday evening.
Next thing I know I'm at home.
Brought back to consciousness
with an assertive knock at the front door.
More uniforms, more police.
Mum explains that they have to take my statement.
I panic, cry -
I've done a lot of that today.
I hide some things from them;
I'm too ashamed.
They have cameras on their vests,
tiny eyes watching me,
recording the moment I recall my trauma.
My body hurts,
but my brain and my heart are in agony.
They ask me to take my clothes off.
How can they ask me that?
Explanations are given to my mother,
her face conveys the emotions that I'm too numb to feel.
It's protocol,
they need evidence of any injuries, they say.
Choked sobs escape my mother's mouth
as I take my clothes off.
Shades of black and blue litter my body.
*******, thighs, stomach, *** -
my skin edited by violent hands.
My most intimate areas a part of a police file forever.
They take my ****** jeans, underwear, top all into evidence.
They leave.

Tuesday morning.
I am told not to go into school
by the head of year.
The boys are still allowed.
Motionless body lying in bed,
I stare at the wall for hours.
All of my energy put towards breathing.
Mum skipped work,
sitting outside my bedroom door
like a prison guard -
terrified I would hurt myself.
I can't speak.
How do you tell the woman who raised you
that you don't want to be alive anymore?

About a week later.
I still haven't been to school.
I've barely moved from my bed.
The physical marks have almost vanished,
but the sadness cripples me still.
I have to go to a police station today,
a forty minute trip.
My best friend comes.
I'm numb, I cannot feel the car moving.
I have been numb for over a week.
Isolation caves in on me -
I'm in an interview room with a policewoman and man.
They say three's a crowd,
but I still feel completely alone.
Just over six hours.
Recounting the event took over six hours.
The walls of the interview room painted grey,
or maybe that's just the only colour I can see now.
I didn't cry.
I haven't cried since the Monday that everything became real.
Fragments of the night flash through my mind,
it's becoming difficult to close my eyes.
I went into the interview room while it was light outside,
I leave and it's pitch black.
When I check the time on my phone before I hand it in as evidence,
it's almost 11pm.

Another week passes.
I'm still not allowed into school.
Most of my friends have given up on me.
They don't want to be associated with the girl who cried **** because she was embarrassed of her foursome.
But no-one knows what happened behind that door.
The horrors that occurred,
the venom in the insults they spat at me,
using my body as a human rag doll.
The police call, the detective assigned to my case.
My heart drops
as my mum tells me what he says.
"They're treating two of the boys as witnesses,
only one as a suspect."
I go to my bedroom as I feel my heart strings sever.
Try to sleep,
but I cannot close my eyes.
I see the room,
the darkness,
their eyes.
I smell sweat and shame.
I hear them calling me "it" -
a worthless victim.
I feel the poison on their fingertips.
Dead the second they touched me.

Months pass.
Less contact with the police.
I go back to school.
Adjust to life as 'that girl'.
Learn to sleep again.
Deal with the nightmares and flashbacks.
Stop panicking every time someone touches me.
Open up about the pain I feel every day.

It's February.
Ten months later.
I haven't heard from the police since December.
When I ring
they tell me my case has been dropped.
They say there's a lack of evidence.
What they really mean is that no-one in court will believe
my story against the three of there's.
I expected this.
The blood on my underwear
does not count.
The pictures of my body painted with bruises
do not count.
The six hour recording where I describe every soul breaking ******
does not count.
The countless therapy sessions trying to fix the flashbacks and panic attacks
do not count.
The nights I planned how to die
do not count.
I used to be a person.
Now I'm just another **** case,
at the bottom of the pile.
Even with your cut thighs,
Sad eyes
And fake smiles

You are still beautiful.
To those who struggle with loving themselves. You're beautiful.
Marina Kay Oct 1
I was 20 years old,
Walking down the road.
You stopped me in my tracks
To say hello.
I said it back because what's the harm?
From that moment on,
I was a victim to your charm.
You called me pretty
And reached out to hold me,
That alone should have sent me running.
You refused to let me leave,
Until you had a way of contacting me.
Gripping on to my sleeve,
I did what you asked of me.
I wasn't scared
When I should've been.
I was taught to think
That was romantic of him.
If I could turn back,
I would untell myself that.
Shed light on my naivety,
perhaps protect my virginity,
From a 35 year old man
With an abominable plan.
Yes I was of legal age
But here's the common sense,
It still gave you no right
To rob me of my innocence.
Convinced we were friends
And I would always be safe
I let my guard down
Oh ***, what a mistake.
You kept wanting to meet late at night.
In your car, in a park,
Anywhere out of sight.
I always felt compelled
During those meetings of ours.
Never like my own self
In those early morning hours.
The first time you laid hands on me
Was when I called and needed company.
Vulnerable and upset,
I needed a friend.
A shoulder to cry on,
A possible distraction,
A devil-sent ravisher
Was not what I asked for.
I was not in control.
I kept coming back for more.
The night you finally ****** me
Is my reoccurring nightmare.
A force and ****** feature,
The end of an affair.
I can't leave it in the past.
You left me aghast.
I want to tear off my skin
And rid myself of your sin.
It's been a couple of months,
Still I can't bear to be clutched,
Until now, I've kept my mouth shut
About the night I was touched.
I'm trying to heal.
Pull the trigger.

**** me.

So that I can no longer paint my emotions with lies.
Sometimes you just can't describe moments you only feel it

I was waiting for my prince but he never came.
So I went looking for him.

It's as strange as people go from lovers to strangers.
Do not bring love today,
I want your shame.

My hobby  now is to see depressed girls with pink wigs.

I need you to hurry up when you're going to make decisions.
Because I need you now.
Here on this terrace near the sea.
Looks like I'm lying on the seashore.

I wanted to be like ***.
Have access to a door to the infinite of an unreal place.

To be honest, we all create an unreal world a surreal fantasy when we are rejected.

And so when the pain begins to flow, we look for ways to define love.

Do you think I'm a ****** girl?

Pull the trigger.

It ends my agony of not being able to love.

Pull out the rug.

Drop me into reality.

Sometimes people make us think we're on the test.

No one can see anyone's heart.
But we all have a concept of what the other feels.
No one can see the heart beating.
But everyone thinks we're alive.

Pull the trigger.

And I end up feeling like I'm repeating the same mistakes.
I do not want to have unreal feelings.
Get the feeling of being looking for nothing.

Pull the trigger

**** what's already dead
I sit in the waiting room until I hear my name
I stand and follow the nurse into the tiny room
As I sit she asks,
“Last name and date of birth”
She takes my blood pressure and temperature
“Do you feel safe at home?”
I answer yes for I live on my own.
I feel safest by myself.
“Any thoughts of suicide or self harm?”
A pause
“No” I quietly mutter outloud
And on she goes
Little does she know what’s going on inside my head
I can just imagine the look on her face if I had spilled out everything
“Well you see, I have extreme anxiety, I overanalyze every situation I’m in, I get panic attacks, I think about cutting at least twice a day, I contemplate suicide on the worst days and am depressed beyond belief
But you’d never be able to tell just by looking at me.
Even she wouldn’t know what to do.
No one would know what to do
Not even I
For I argue with myself every night
Back and forth
Back and forth
I don’t think I have the courage too
Every time I get close I just can’t.
Deep down I know the people who care about me would be devastated
Maybe one day it’ll all go away
And my mind will be clear
Maybe... just maybe
I will be okay.
Do you ever wake up and feel like you haven’t slept a minute?
Do you look in the mirror and don’t recognize the person you see?
Do you go to your job and slug through the day?
Do you skip meals because all you want to do is sleep?
Do you let your mood swings ruin your day?
Do you snap at those you love?
Do you realize all these things but can’t muster the strength to fix it?
Do you cry yourself to sleep with the though of how much you hate who you’ve become?
Do you make plans to change but never follow through?
Do people leave you in the dust like you never even mattered?
Do you count down the hours until you can be alone
And then sit alone while you’re depression swallows you whole.
Do you wish things could go back to the way they were?
But deep down you know they never will.
Do you feel stuck
Or like you’re going into a fight blind?
You’ll come out with bruises yet you’ll do it again
Do you want to run your fingers across the blade?
But don’t because your loved ones will criticize you for it
How can I fix this?
Please someone tell me
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