With your hands around my throat, did you know I would feel them in two decades time?
That sometimes living would feel like slow death through the memory of hands
In places that make me shudder and shame in remembrance?
Your face stares at me, in the dark, in the light, just as you imprinted on my face.
Tiny wrists, held, pushed down by the weight of lies and bodies.
When you fell limp on my tightly knotted corpse, were you thinking of fairies and butterflies that my eyes fixed upon on my wallpaper of dreams?
Can you remember the toxic smell of drink and dirt and despair that filled your room as I ran away in my mind, body frozen to the spot, rotting in your stench?
Dragged, pushed, trapped. Bruises explained away through accident and clumsy play.
Forced to pray to your god over a coffin filled with you, bowing on terrified knee from my body that died and shrivelled before it had chance to grow.
Pain, blood, violation, rape. All sink into the background against the torment of a life taken.
I was special, is that not what you told me?
(My heart is beating out of my chest posting this. It has been a while since I shared anything of this nature, usually keeping to my notebooks and journals. Last night I wrote this straight to the screen, but could not press ‘publish’ at the time. Fear. Shame. However, it stayed with me, and through the night I realised that the voice, the block, stopping me from releasing this into the world were the same ones who I speak of in this post. The fear of this being visible is real and alive still, my blood runs cold, but for anyone with similar experiences… You are not alone. If it can make one iota of difference to anyone or anything, then it’s worth it.)