I Am What's LeftMature

I am what is left 
of summer nights and
of being high
just to get pass
memories that haunt and fill
the
quiet night with static
and drumbeats that beat to the beat of a heart thats beating too fast
and at last; I am what’s left,
of a girl raped,
taken, wrung out to dry,
alcohol seeping from my bones onto grass,
acid shame burning my grave straight to the pits of hell.

I am the meager remains
of what your son did.
I am the last piece
of what your best friend did.
And yes, I am the last fucking shred of sanity
that your husband left
when he raped the last fucking shred of innocence
from my very soul.

"Why were you even there in the first place?"
Why does it matter why I was there?
What was he doing at a party thrown by a nineteen year old
on a Saturday night anyway?
and how many others did he take,
in that same brutal way?
how many drinks has he slipped a little bit of something into,
then watched as they tripped over their own two feet,
falling,unsteady, into his arms, while he smiles?
He’s got the face of a kind man,
the kind of man to help you find a lost pet,
or who would give you directions when you’re lost,
but I’m just so fucking lost because of him
drowning and I can’t fucking swim
and they asked me,
"Why did you even talk to him?"
like its my fault.
like I fucking asked for it.
I’ve been steered into self-destruction because of society and
the way they’re judging me and my silent confession
of my scared bunny rabbit submission
a mere 120 pounds and you expected me to stop wandering hands
of a forty-five year old, 210 pound stranger?

Society says die, because I’m a mess
thats why they turn their heads when I walk down the street
with a scarlet 'A' pinned to my young starlet dress-
its why they ignore the pills I take,
adding five more each day just to keep the memories at bay.
Did you think that I’d just forget it?
This is something I live with every fucking day.

And you say it gets easier.
I'm hoping I live to see the day,
when I no longer feel the shadow pains of
what he did,
and the things you’ve said,
because you’re unwilling to admit,
that he’s unperfect,
and much less than what a man ought to be.

The End

45 comments about this poem Feed