Horror

Warning: This poem is about rape. I want to warn those who may be triggered. That is not my intent.

He stole my me, hot hot breath on the back of my neck. Ordered me to shut the fuck up bitch. Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be. You know you want it anyway. He pushes himself deep inside, causes pain I know I can get through. If only I don’t scream. It will be over soon. After what seems like an eternity, he stops. I didn’t feel him spasm. Why did he stop? I must be confused. The nightmare I’m living, must be blurring reality. It must be over. He will get up and leave. I will be safe.

Agony explodes into my very core, seemingly splitting me in two. The most excruciating pain I have ever felt. I can hardly breath. He keeps shouting Fuck, over and over again. His disgusting hands grabbing onto my shoulders. I am dying, slowly, quickly. He pants hard with his effort, gaining pleasure, while abusing me. I have never given myself to a lover this way before. That he has stolen from me. In angry, rhythmic anguish-inducing stabs to my soul. Feeling my sphincter tear with every thrust. I am trying so hard not to scream. I cannot make him mad. Please let it be over. I feel like I will pass out with the pain. I shove my head into the pillow, to stifle my screams. Such is my need to vocalize this violation. Out loud. To push the poison from within. Finally, he pushes with a loud grunt and spasm of his body. The monster is nearly fed. He executes his last evil exertions, in hungry forceful moves. And then he stops. Yet does not withdraw. Lingering as if we were a them. Lovers trying to enjoy the last moments of love-making together.  Not a thief and victim. A victim who will never be the same again. And when he finally eases out, he laughs a quiet whisper of victory. He leaves the room, and once again I am alone.

I let my body fall flat onto the bed. Instant regret as my anus is compressed in an explosion of pain. I slowly roll onto my side, tentatively, in fear of the pain. I lie there in stillness, scared that any slight movement, will rip through me. I am glancing at the door, petrified he will return. I feel a wetness coming from me, and soaking the bed. I initially assume it is his fluid. At least it is leaving me. Soon I can tell, that is not all it is. My anus is damaged, and I am bleeding. I cannot tell how much, so I tentatively roll over to see. A bright red blot slowly expands on the sheet before my eyes. Somehow I have the strength, both mental and physical, to call for help. Whispering to 911, sharing what I can. I need help. I am hurt. I cannot tell what happened yet. I cannot connect the act of violation to my being. But I feel the pain, my heart thumping, my eyes full of tears. I’m lying. The act is now part of me. It is connected. It always will be.

Eventually the police and paramedics arrive. I do not know who let them in. I heard the pounding at the door, but I could not get up. My body and soul need to rest. I cannot function. Leave me be. The police officers and paramedics are standing over me. They are speaking words that I cannot form into meaningful thoughts. Eventually the words turn to mumbles I can hardly hear. I notice one of them is handsome, as their faces blur in and out of focus. I should not notice such things. What kind of woman notices that, after what has happened me? A week, a day, an hour ago, I would have been nervous, giddy, shy, flirtatious. Who gives a shit about that now? I will never give a shit again. I will never be with a man again, and I don’t fucking care.

An argument is brewing inside me. My brain and I are wont to duel it out. I am it. It is me. Yet we will argue with each other, with ourselves. It’s all my fault. You are not to blame. He violated you. I should have closed the window. He had no right to come into your home. I am dirty. I will never be clean. He put his filth on your body, but it will wash away. At the hospital you will be able to shower. My soul, my core, is filthy – the very heart of me. It will never be clean. You will get there, with love and care. It will take time, but it will happen. Have faith. I have no faith. I am destroyed. Ugly. Disgusting. Untouchable. I do not want touch anyway. Never, ever, again. You are beautiful, lovable, graceful. I want to be alone. I need to be alone. You will feel safe again. Feel the desire to be with someone. It is okay to need shelter now. The wounds are fresh, and raw, and pulsing. Yes, and they are awful, but they too will heal. Your body is strong, as are you. It will all come in time.

My mind and I begin to merge, not meeting in the middle, but meeting. My mind’s whispers nearly drowned, by my insistent shouts. But whispers can be heard. They can get louder with time. Maybe my mind’s will.