Survivors Poetry

Broken

They looked, but didn’t touch.

They looked, but didn’t touch.

Not me anyway. I was lucky.

I think.

They looked, but didn’t touch.

Sometimes I wish they had. Then I wouldn’t have to protect myself. I protect myself because no-one else will. I protect myself because I don’t trust anyone else to. I protect myself like I should have protected them; beautiful, innocent, violated…

It’s my fault.

Sometimes I wish I had stayed in the room and taken her place.

I should have stayed.

Sometimes I wish they had ripped through the tape and broken the glass; left their prints at the scene and taken what they wanted. Then I wouldn’t have the socially unacceptable stamp of ‘virgin’ plastered on my forehead. It’s more acceptable to be a slut than it is to love yourself and cherish what you have, but I don’t cherish what I have; I fear what I have to lose.

I should have stayed.

Sometimes I wish I could take a knife to every one of their throats.

The ones who waited until I was alone; the ones who lurked in the shadows, leering with their shit-eating grins; the ones who violated with their thoughts and raped with their eyes; the ones who stole away my childhood and replaced it with shame and guilt; the ones who coaxed us away from our parents and led us up the stairs.

Sometimes I wish I could take a knife to every one of their throats; lacerate their scrawny, leering necks and stab out their last living breaths 1… 5… 10 times and one for luck; one for every fucking year of my life. Stuck in the past. 11 forever.

You think I shy away from adult conversation because I’m too innocent; but you’re wrong.

It’s my fault. I should have stayed.

They looked, but didn’t touch.

They looked, but didn’t touch.

They looked.

Anonymous