Letters from sixteen

No longer human

A vent collection
TW: CSA

No longer human
When he did what he did I think the person I could have grown into was fundamentally changed.
I do not know who I would have been if I hadn't but hurt, but I do wish I was that person.
Because when he put his hands over my mouth to muffle the sounds I wasn't a person to him, I wasn't even an object, I don't know what I was.
I think those moments really did rip me in half and the pieces kept getting smaller.
I have not a single clue what I am writing anymore.
I delete each line, I erase chapters entirely.
I am aching and I hope that this doesn't go down the drain like everything else did.
I can't even say it most days.
I write about it endlessly and I wear my pain, but saying it for what it really was isn't something I've been able to do very much.
He raped me, even if I don't say it, even if I pretend like I have moved through it, he raped me.
It will always be true and that crushes me.
That scared, hurt, desperate child will always exist.
Those nights will always have happened.
I don't understand how you could see that lively spirit and break it into pieces.
How could you do that to someone so small?

Haunted
The thing about pain is that it must go somewhere, you cannot erase it, there is no throwing it in the garbage bin, those moments will exist, even if you run.
I remember when he would rape me I had no other option but to go to school the next day and pretend that my family was my livelyhood.
As if they didn't see what was begging to be seen. As if he didn't didn't do what he did and leave me out to dry in the sun.
At first I fought with everything I had but soon I learned to turn my head the other way, I wasn't "taking it" I wasn't "letting him," I was trying to survive what I almost sure I wouldn't.
Wouldn't it have been easier if I hadn't? I ask myself that sometimes. But I deserve better and I will sure as hell try to find it.
My pain spilled into everything.
It still does.
I carry it and it's heavy.
All I think about is how it happened or how I can get away from it.
I relive those moments daily and I attempt to escape them with that same level of desperation.

Not the problem
It seems all my poetry has turned into rambles, I do not like this, yet here we are.
I can't believe that they still talk about him as if he was a normal person.
As if he didn't touch me for years, as if he didn't rip my childhood out of my hands.
Maybe I could tell them simply.
Shut the fuck up, you people don't know who you are talking about.
You don't know him at all, I know him better than anyone.
I could ask them, really, but my god I should not have to.
Yes I will not deny the ever lasting effects this has had on me.
I don't sleep much anymore, I hallucinate, there is a scared child roaming around in my brain, I put poison into my body as if that were the answer.
I would love to sleep, staying up late isn't fun anymore.
But every night when I lay down to rest I remember what happened.
It happened too many times to count.
Fucking Christ I am not the crazy one.
I screamed and cried and begged for him to stop.
I did not want it.
He raped me more times then I can count.
I hate to admit it.
I hate to say the word because it is such a dirty thing.
When you touch a kid like that, when they are begging you to stop, the child is not the crazy one.
Maybe I seem different than I am but I know what I am.
You will never tell me otherwise and if you do I won't listen.
Fuck you people. Fuck you for not seeing it. And fuck you I am not the crazy one.

Verbose
I have no clue where I will start this poem nor where it will end, but I assure you it will not be the eloquent story I often tell.
Where do I start?
Maybe the first time.
I was eight.
He did not care.
I think he actually liked it.
I wasn't anything but something to throw out and leave to rot when you are done.
Do not tell me I need to get over it, as if I am not trying everything to move on.
These poems have become disasters.
I was a child and I begged him not to.
I can't get it out of my mind.
I would and have tried to do anything to get it out of me.
Sometimes they work, rarely do they help, and never do they last.
There is no pretty way to put it, I am spiraling because I am not incredibly intoxicated.
I don't care if it is a sense of burning up my nose or a warmth down my throat.
I need something to make sense.
I just need somewhere to go where something makes sense.
I suspect that place does not exist.
I want it to be over and really over.
He doesn't touch me anymore but his photos are still in our living room.
Fuck you people.
I don't recall seeing any of me there.
Why am I the crazy one?
Why am I the family disappointment?
I'm the one who's messed up?
Really, really please explain to me why.
Because I struggle?
Because I've been too difficult for you?
I don't care about you anymore.
I shouldn't ever have.
I will play the part until I can leave.
I will rub it in your face that you have failed.
You deserve it, really.
I never did.
If I die because I cannot live with this blood is not on my hands.