Rhombus

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

Published by Prncsslyssa

Big heart, big hair, big smile, big dreams

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