1.23.18 | 23/30
23/30, National Poetry Month, 30/30 Challenge
It's not National Poetry Month, nor does January have 30 days, but it's worth a shot.
Thank you to my inspiration for this.
-
what someone took from you
My voice was robbed from me on that damp April night.
While the moon illuminated, Lucent and majestic, shining from the skylight in the wood-paneled ceiling, all the light inside of me was stolen.
The beaming heart I had always taken pride in was now a cave so disastrously strip-mined.
I learned to love a little bit less on that night because love didn't justify the pain I felt and the voice I never knew how to use was suddenly missing.
It became just another night cloaked with her narration, ignorance of my position in all of it; just another night where "no" and "stop" and "this hurts" were disabled from my vocabulary.
I laid there in pain; the pain in which I still describe as the worst physical pain of my life, and maybe a quarter of the worst emotional pain, too.
My sense of safety was robbed from me during a nameless night behind a dirty movie theater.
It was all fun at first, that was all it was supposed to be.
I should be allowed to have fun, right? After months dried and wasted with no inkling of human touch, I finally believed I could allow myself to feel again.
Instead, his touches felt like sparse tree branches scraping up against a glass window.
Nevertheless, new scars soon appeared.
The car doors locked, under his command, not mine, as we moved to the backseat, not in motion, fully parked, with nothing around us, nothing at all.
Nothingness was what scared me the most-- nothing to come and save me, nothing to hear my screams if I somehow unlocked my voicebox, nothing to stop all of this.
I did try to stop it, but my refusals weren't met kindly.
"No" was a foreign tongue he was unfamiliar with and when translated he decided it meant more kisses on my bruising neck, more grasps underneath my bralette despite the number of times I pulled it down.
My actions, nor my words, didn’t speak very loud to him.
He laid down on me, his weight pressing against me, holding me down, pushing me down, my skin sinking into the sweaty cloth of seat beneath my bottom.
I was trapped on that spring night when my heart was in flight and my mind was in overdrive and red wasn't even a strong enough color to describe the flags appearing before me.
I was trapped for months after that, stuck in a game of cat and mouse, one in which I was desperately trying to convince myself otherwise of the truth my heart knew too deeply.
My heart was taken within a spread of hot autumn days drenched in sunshine and crisp evenings where you warmed me too much to even sense the weather.
Mornings and afternoons spent in a stiff expensive skirt with adventurous fingertips equivalent to soft whiskers of a cat-- searching and seeking and navigating through what our feelings whispered and screamed and cried and sang to us.
You held my heart in your hands, squeezed softly so it would continue to pump blood during times where it forgot to do so. You kept it warm and alive and functioning, even at my most desperate times where my forces could have stopped it.
I remember grinning in a CVS, sitting in an aisle for an obscene amount of time, staring at my phone while your messages popped up and casually, yet meaningfully, thinking-- "This is love. This is it."
Before I knew it, you took my heart, and I don't know what you did with it.
I'm not familiar with the bloody, beaten down, tired, scarred, stretched, and tormented organ that has replaced it.
I lost myself in you, and I don't think it's something I'll ever get back.
I'm not sure whether you know you have me or not.
It's not National Poetry Month, nor does January have 30 days, but it's worth a shot.
Thank you to my inspiration for this.
-
what someone took from you
My voice was robbed from me on that damp April night.
While the moon illuminated, Lucent and majestic, shining from the skylight in the wood-paneled ceiling, all the light inside of me was stolen.
The beaming heart I had always taken pride in was now a cave so disastrously strip-mined.
I learned to love a little bit less on that night because love didn't justify the pain I felt and the voice I never knew how to use was suddenly missing.
It became just another night cloaked with her narration, ignorance of my position in all of it; just another night where "no" and "stop" and "this hurts" were disabled from my vocabulary.
I laid there in pain; the pain in which I still describe as the worst physical pain of my life, and maybe a quarter of the worst emotional pain, too.
My sense of safety was robbed from me during a nameless night behind a dirty movie theater.
It was all fun at first, that was all it was supposed to be.
I should be allowed to have fun, right? After months dried and wasted with no inkling of human touch, I finally believed I could allow myself to feel again.
Instead, his touches felt like sparse tree branches scraping up against a glass window.
Nevertheless, new scars soon appeared.
The car doors locked, under his command, not mine, as we moved to the backseat, not in motion, fully parked, with nothing around us, nothing at all.
Nothingness was what scared me the most-- nothing to come and save me, nothing to hear my screams if I somehow unlocked my voicebox, nothing to stop all of this.
I did try to stop it, but my refusals weren't met kindly.
"No" was a foreign tongue he was unfamiliar with and when translated he decided it meant more kisses on my bruising neck, more grasps underneath my bralette despite the number of times I pulled it down.
My actions, nor my words, didn’t speak very loud to him.
He laid down on me, his weight pressing against me, holding me down, pushing me down, my skin sinking into the sweaty cloth of seat beneath my bottom.
I was trapped on that spring night when my heart was in flight and my mind was in overdrive and red wasn't even a strong enough color to describe the flags appearing before me.
I was trapped for months after that, stuck in a game of cat and mouse, one in which I was desperately trying to convince myself otherwise of the truth my heart knew too deeply.
My heart was taken within a spread of hot autumn days drenched in sunshine and crisp evenings where you warmed me too much to even sense the weather.
Mornings and afternoons spent in a stiff expensive skirt with adventurous fingertips equivalent to soft whiskers of a cat-- searching and seeking and navigating through what our feelings whispered and screamed and cried and sang to us.
You held my heart in your hands, squeezed softly so it would continue to pump blood during times where it forgot to do so. You kept it warm and alive and functioning, even at my most desperate times where my forces could have stopped it.
I remember grinning in a CVS, sitting in an aisle for an obscene amount of time, staring at my phone while your messages popped up and casually, yet meaningfully, thinking-- "This is love. This is it."
Before I knew it, you took my heart, and I don't know what you did with it.
I'm not familiar with the bloody, beaten down, tired, scarred, stretched, and tormented organ that has replaced it.
I lost myself in you, and I don't think it's something I'll ever get back.
I'm not sure whether you know you have me or not.
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