***** before the age of seven
I lost my faith that day
told that I couldnt get in to heaven
because I had *** before marriage
I was a child thinking I had a miscarriage
because the toilet and my ******* were blood red from where my ***** bled
and I shed my virginity and a tear
and everytime I walked in that bathroom I had fear
when I was naked I felt afraid
when I laid in my bed at night
I would close the door tight
I didnt want a sliver of light coming in
because anybody could creep in on a whim
That day changed me forever
I will never forget it
and I will always regret it
when he asked do you want to play a game
I said yes and expressed excitement and delightment
but that moment should have been his indictment
there should have been punishment and violence
but instead there was shushing and silence
in my head the blood is rushing inside of me
as I share this memory
I see the face of my enemy
dressed as a clown on halloween
and I want to scream.
but this isnt something to shout about
but im angry about it everyday
and im still hurting in every way
because Im not certain
the pain goes away
and inside I die
knowing that im not right

I think we all have our, "Hold on," moments.
Our, "Wait a minute," moments.
The, "Stop and breathe," moments.
I feel like we jump too early,
Or we close our eyes too late,
Premature to seeing something that scares us most,
Unable to get a good look at the attacker.
Take this into consideration;
One, breathe but don't inhale too loudly for your fear will hear you.
Two, stand your ground but don't stand too tall because it's like challenging a broad shouldered victor in the room.
Three, listen closely but with caution,
You might hear something you do not want to hear.
Four, wear your smile like a pendant but if you do beware,
there are people willing to take that smile and brandish it with their own chemicals.
Do not underestimate yourself,
For your body is a gun to which only you have access to the trigger so when you go off, do not blame anybody but yourself.
If you have exposed your trigger to another do not let them anywhere near you for your trigger will be their new weapon of choice.
Five, please don't expect to hand your fully loaded body to another and to be put upon a shelf and shown off because baby,
They will empty you chambers,
They will hold you like a threat,
They will own you like your name isn't on the document that is your skin,
Baby, they will load their own bullets into you like you're the one at fault for firing because you thought handing your body over to somebody you love would not pull the trigger.
I know it is not your fault but the jury does not think so.

Most days, I wear
my depression, my anxiety,
my PTSD, like Girl Scout badges
I proudly sewed on a sash
and wear on my uniform to Brownies.

Part of a girls' club for which
my member's card never came home from school
or the mail,
but the ceremony was held anyway.
Induction was never an option,
and the meetings are held every day.

Reciting the motto,
and finger painting it everywhere;
it's my identity more often
than it isn't.

There are others outside the club,
who say maybe those badges could be replaced,
one by one, with items that are
more worthy of what life becomes;
More worthy of topics of conversation, they will bring more joy;
More entertaining than ****, or abuse,
or why sadness lingers like strep in my throat
that cannot be cured with the strongest of antibiotics.

I just want to get a badge that says I learned how to skip today.
I blew bubbles and they flew and glimmered into the wind.
I played hopscotch and counted to ten while remembering to breathe
and reciting my favorite rhyme.

Cognitive distortions, and it's always been like this;
Water fountain eyes with no thirst-quenching,
bruises spreading out in hand-shaped marks around my neck,
whispering not to speak;
Mom says I'm just looking for attention, while wanting to shrink
with all the clothes that no longer fit;
Dad hits me when -

There I go again.

I'll dream in cotton candy color of a future that dissolves
honey sweet between my teeth:
Carefully I'll sew on badges saying I graduated,
held down a job,
and became something.

My feet sloshed through the rain-filled mud as I ventured closer towards the wooded labyrinth. I was drawn to the idea of ending the raven’s era, as he cut through the sky, heading towards the all-known border. I felt that with each footstep made, a part of my world would erode. The moon bellowed, revealing my figure. Throwing caution to the way I ascended the mountain, I had to destroy this apparition for I could not take his taunting glare any longer.
Approaching the cliff-side, I could hear my lover’s voice beckoning me from beyond the grave. My sanity was fading into oblivion, madness taking its place. I watched the raven descend to the angelic statue that over looked metropolis. Gripping the revolver with a burning passion and aimed at the foul, as I pulled back the receiver and placed gentle pressure on the trigger, my lover came to me. I could see his face and a flash of desperation… I knew I needed to be with him for this life was no longer worth living. I retracted my aim and placed the barrel firmly between my lips, closing my eyes. Click. The silence had come.

Most days I feel like I wear
my depression, anxiety,
PTSD, and issues
like a sash of girl scout badges that I proudly sewed on
and wear with my uniform to Brownies.

This is part of a girl's club
of which I've never wanted to be a member;
something much bigger than me,
replacing my personality,
that I just want to escape.

But I drown myself in it.
I paint it on myself
and it's my identity more often than it isn't.

That girl wearing the sash wants to replace those badges,
one by one,
with things that are more worthy of a life story;
More worthy of topics of conversation;
More entertaining than talking about my ****,
or my abuse,
or why I'm sad today.

I just want to get a badge that says I learned how to skip today.
I blew bubbles and they flew and glimmered into the wind.
I played hopscotch and counted to ten while remembering to breathe
and reciting my favorite rhyme.

It's always been like this.

Always crying eyes and sad stories and wishing I was invisible;
People asking me why I'm so quiet;
My mom saying I'm just looking for attention;
My dad hitting me when -

There I go again.

I don't want to write another sad poem.

I want to rise above it all.
I want to give sad people with sad faces like me hope.

Give me a day where I believe the sun will rise
and I will enjoy the sunset without fearing the dark.

Can I just write a poem that says "**** the police"
for every single line
for every single stanza
and leave it at that?

Because I'm imagining his next victim, because there will be a next one,
and how she will feel when she finds out that he had my former report
on his private police record, accessible only by certain police.

I want to scream, but the metal chain he put around my throat to choke me because
"ha ha you like that, right?" after I had already said no
is still there, so nothing can come out of my mouth,
except I've been screaming as loud as I can for so long;

One year and I'm still not free.

His body weight is still crushing me, still heavy; the bruises on my body still felt every day, my body a museum of decaying loss and my mind a perfect video recording that plays on repeat whenever I just
want
some
sleep;

Nightmares I wake from and can't wake from.

I think one of the hardest days of my life was when I got my **** kit.
I mean- you know- other than the actual ****.
I developed a stutter that day.
I blame myself.
I blame. I -I- I blame myself.
But I can't!

All of the "no's" that I said to him didn't matter, the police said;
everything non consensual didn't count;
it was only the one coerced "yes" that counted;

Scared for my life but, **** the police, right?

And all the times that I said to the police "yes" that I was *****,
collapse and boom like a bomb on deaf ears of police that tell me that,
"maybe you just regretted having *** with him."

Or how about when they rolled their eyes when they learned that I met him on tinder?
I gave them a smile and answered that yes, that's true, because what else was I supposed to do but tell the truth?

Or the first thing they said to me was "so then you had a few drinks..."
Well no, sir, that's not what happned, at all.

See, there have been multiple levels of injustice here and I thought I was doing the right thing to heal.

In my partial hospitalization program that I went to for PTSD,
that I got from my ******,
I learned that the "right" thing to do was to seek help right away after a traumatic incident so that it doesn't lead to lifelong suffering;
Quick help leads to a faster recovery,
and I've always wanted to do the right thing:

Like getting him arrested for ****** me.

But the police don't listen even when your body has been confiscated, graffiti marked by your ******,
and the police tell you coldly to just seek counseling because, after all,
you "consented,"
and that your ****** isn't a ****** in the eyes of the law.
A ****** isn't a ****** but is a ****** and he's going free.
I did the right thing but I'm still stuck night after night, waking up crying;
I wonder who will be next, and that person's weight is added on top of me;
The gallery of bruises he inflicts will just continue, and I wonder where on snapchat will they be next?

Children come and children go,
They grow, they live, they die.
Backflip off that net of death and
Think you’ve done them right.
Until their ****** suicide
Keeps you up at night.
And when you close your eyes you see
The mess they left behind.

Not the creaking, stretching rope—
The noose that hung them tight
But the gleam of dying light
From their glassy eyes.
And if you said to me today
That you regret it all
What would you say when I, someday,
Will live, will die, will fall?

My simple answer, darling dear,
Is that you must let go.
As hard as it may be to you,
It’s what’s already known.
We get sick, we wilt, we die,
It’s all a part of life
Just don’t be that sorry thing;
That mess I left behind.