The only thing worse than being raped,
Is being raped as a child
Your whole world
Future
Vision for yourself,
Ruined—
Changed
Rose-colored glasses smashed
Forever a bleak-tint darkening interactions
Endless turning of wheels,
Trying to work out who is for or against you
Moments of joy suffused with distrust
Times of intimacy soured with anxiety
Anticipated responses:
The glint of unexpectedness, covered quickly with an audible “I’m sorry”
The gleam of feigned sympathy, barely veiling overwhelming fascination of being so close to pain
A plethora of questions collecting on their tongue,
Spittle of intrigue ready to fall from the corners of their mouth
Emotionally you turn away, unwilling to pick at a scab that appears too often
The self-focused know-it-all who can’t comprehend privacy or decency, “Why didn’t you fight? Run? Scream?”
The moistened eye of understanding,
For they too have been forced to battle through the darkness within another
The gift of love
What is love?
I know of hate
I know of weakness
Their relation close as kinship
To be strong—no not the strength of hands clasped over wrists
Not the force of weight pinning you down
Not the immovability of desire sought to fulfillment at all costs,
The strength of spirit—
that pushes you through the shattering of Earth
Reassembly is slow,
Trying,
Exhausting to completion.
It never ends
The doubting, reflecting, the praying.
A circling of thoughts routinized into your day
Its end only reached once the familiar words have orbited around your mind,
Easily making their rounds;
A sphere of internal abuse and encouragement
You long for a new shape
To box it out,
To open a corner, wedging your finger underneath,
lifting it off its edge.
If you could balance it on its side, creating a small space at the base,
You could nudge out the memory, or at least the questioning doubt.
Dropping the stiff line like the slamming of a garage door,
it sets down with the force that plunged inside of you,
A click of finality resounds loudly within your solely-created polygon
You will choose the words recycling inside
Choice wasn’t yours then
But it is now
12.19.19 Inspired after finishing The Bluest Eye
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