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The worlds a horrible place, you say
New terrors and struggles every day
And when the issues come into play
Everyone seems to run away

People are sick of everyone dying
And people are sick of always trying
When deaths no longer leave us crying
We are the ones with nooses to be tying

As blood is spilled it continues to flow
The rules are ignored and anything goes
Children's skin is scarred in jagged rows
The world is lost by now i suppose

Corpses are lying on every street
People walk with death at their feet
Too many people "forget" to eat
Too many people repeatedly beat

People forget the meanings of yes and no
Children are crying with nowhere to go
Humans are suffering and everyone knows
This is the world now, you suppose
may change / improve later, im just kinda disappointed in the world today i guess
ómra Oct 29
when i was a child,
my aunt and uncle tried to adopt me.
they didn't succeed, of course,
because its near impossible to take a child
from their birth mother.

it didn't hit me that what i went through
was so noticeable and so real
until they told me that, late one night,
on a dock at midnight, after drinking
one too many.

when you go through something terrible
i think that your mind tries to downplay it.
you tell yourself if wasnt so bad, not really,
but when someone else validates it... well.
it gets harder to ignore.

there was one summer, they told me,
that i refused to let anyone touch me
or undress me, or bathe me.
there is no clearer sign than that
and i wonder: why didn't they try harder?

they told me that when my brother and i
would arrive at the house for our summer,
they would take off my brother's shirt and
bear witness to what HE had done--
red scars, angry and raw, covering his back.

"it just made us so angry," they said.
"it would take weeks and weeks but
eventually you two would open up and
sit at the kitchen table and just cry, and
tell us about what he was doing to you."

why, i thought, didn't they do anything, then?
are the words of scarred and broken children
not enough to condemn those who hurt
them? what else did they need?
our tears, our blood, was that not enough?
i love my aunt and uncle and always will. i cherish them for what they tried to do, and i dont blame them for it not working. but sometimes i feel so angry that no one ever truly helped us.
Savannah Jane Oct 24
If I had died..
you would have to live with the guilt
the guilt of knowing
you killed me.
maybe you’d eventually
forget me
replace me
let go of that guilt.
but maybe,
when you look at her
in just the right lighting
you see my face
instead of hers
or you look at your daughter
and remember that you helped me pick
what ours would have been named
or maybe when you see roses or the moon
you’ll remember my tattoos and how badly I wanted them and how I always wanted more of them
and maybe you’d feel guilty again.
You were so sad.

It started as waterweight, splashing around the corners of your eyes.
I could see the ocean.
You blinked once, and it was gone. I wanted to ask how come you're walking with your head down. Why are you studying the grooves in the asphalt as if it explains in some ancient text why you're dragging around your shoelaces in a cold September night.  

I wanted badly to prescribe you the medicine I remembered taking when the lips that bruised my soul became the knuckles that knocked my knees down.
I saw the universe in big **** splotches-- purple, green, blue, spinning, spinning. You can't look me in the eye, I know.
I can't touch your cheek, I know.

But I can do this. I can write you a note that would casually show up. I can write a few sentences saying I get you-- I get you. You were alone when the collision of his skin against your temple made the ceiling dance. You were alone when you awaken one cold Sunday with laces torn around your ankles and the roses blooming on your favorite sheets. You were alone when you drove away, thinking that maybe the impact from steel to concrete wouldn't be so bad, it can't be that bad...

You were alone then. Let me tell you; You are not alone now.

I got you. I got you.
tw: abuse. I wrote this for a victim of abuse. Please speak up. We all are with you in spirit. Nobody deserves to be abused.
ómra Oct 23
Every single touch that he gave me ignited
like flames on open oil,
consuming and eating away at every
open expanse of my skin.

His hands left prints on my body--
my ****, my thighs, my stomach,
my ******, my mouth
all sick black tar, smoldering and sputtering.

Every time he would scream
a new flame would come,
licking up the soles of my feet and
crowning my head. Bright. So bright.

He tasted like ashes in my mouth
and every time his lips would meet my skin
the flames roared in the back of my mind:
screaming, screaming, too loud for a child's ears.

If you listen to a fire burning old wood,
cracked and dry and parched--
it makes a sound, high pitched and
haunting, a high scream of dying.

If I could have opened my mouth
and had that sound come out,
I would have kept it open all the time
but that's exactly what he wanted.
his fingers in my hair left nothing but charred coals behind, the scarred wreckage of a clear-cut forest. empty. broken. shattered.
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
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.
Elisabeth Oct 2
One negative word paired with your name and I know I will never breathe properly again

You will poke holes in each of my lungs until with every exhale I am whimpering your scent  

You will staple my lips shut and rip them out when I am willing to moan your name

Squeeze my heart with your calloused palms until it only beats for you  

You will shock my system with jumper cables until you are the only thing I find electric  

Cut off my toes and break my feet so that I can never leave you

You will bound my fingers with sewing needles until I am willing to sign myself away to you

And finally, if I ever get away, you will excavate my brain, so I can never truly leave
Vxn Sep 29
i remember the first time i binged.
it felt so fantastic to fill stomach
push it to it's limits.
Renee told me girls with wide hips are sloppy *****.
i was ******, never even kissed a boy but i was going to show her how sloppy i could be.
i remember
2 boxes of six jumbo honey buns
3 microwave pepperoni pizzas
2 bottles of sprite
4 microwaveable fast bite hamburgers
1 back of gummy worms
1/2 a box of cheeze itz
my stomach hurt so bad
i hurt so bad
i looked in mirror and thought about Renee
neat petite small but tall i thought about 6th grade
it all came up
crouched in front of the porcelain bucket
everything came up
i hate puking
feeling my stomach spasms and rub against itself makes my skin crawl
after i emptied i stood up
light headed
but i felt full
i felt good
i looked at myself and thought
oh no
my first experience with bulimia.
Jules Sep 21
dear ***,
(if *** is listening)
i have not died

when the ledge called to me
i did not answer;
when the blade stared at me
i did not falter,
did not offer my hand in greeting
did not hope for it to hold me;
i lay there
and waited for the day to break.

the world kept turning
and i have been left here,
in the strange in-between,
in the stillness;
all the unremarkable tasks
and the things i should be doing -
if i am not swamped by sadness
i am burdened by work;

it is all right.
i have not died
by tomorrow i will return.

dear friends
(for you are the last true thing)
the heart is still heavy
but sometimes the burden is shared.
my hands are still shaking
and i am so tired
but i cannot wait to see you again.
i have not died

dear voice in my head that tells me to die
(i have to believe you are false)
you are so good at convincing me
but by some foolish miracle
i have not died

dear myself
(it has been a while;
come home soon)
yes, i know;
we are both tired
and drawn to the exit sign
but we have not died
we are still here
and quite alive;
it is all right
even if we are only waiting
for our life to remember her purpose;

it is all right.
we will not die
i don't know
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