Letters from sixteen

Moonlight

A vent chapter written on a late night.
TW: CSA

Rotting
I am truly and genuinely rotting.
There's nothing else to say, there's no pretty way to detail it, yet here I sit writing this.
I was left out to dry and when I was no longer being discarded I found strange ways to fill in the gaps of what should have happened.
The abuse I suffered was awful in a way there aren't words for, it broke me into pieces.
I could ask myself why nobody noticed but I don't think I'd want to know.
How could nobody see the horrors I lived in at such a young age?
How did the rape stay between me and that man?
That so-called brother of mine.
It's not just what happened, it's what occurred in between and after.
Those nights I was left to wonder if tonight it would happen again.
The amount of months they had to help him go away, yet I am the one who needs to do differently.
I picked up the pieces and cut myself on the glass.

Waiting
My story is messy and ugly and doesn't make sense so I assume this poem will be written in a similar fashion.
It breaks me more than anything that I knew how to "take it."
I didn't want it. There was a point when I realized there was nothing I could do.
In the beginning I did not go down without a fight.
I screamed and begged and cried.
He didn't care, I imagine it must have turned him on, actually.
But soon enough I learned to step out of my body.
I'd watch as it happened, from the corner of my bedroom.
Or I close my eyes and look the other way.
Maybe it wouldn't hurt as much if I was sleeping.
I was not sleeping.
Every night I try to sleep, part of me feels like I'm waiting for him.

Rambling (again)
I'm beginning to hate being up so late.
I used to love it, really, and a part of me still does.
But I do feel like I'm waiting.
Waiting for him to hurt me, waiting to see if he'd come into my bedroom tonight, waiting to see if I'd make it to tomorrow.
It's over now.
I tell myself that and watch from the corner of my bedroom as it happens again.
As much as I'd love more than anything to move on, I am waiting to push past this, if only it were that easy.
They still have his photos up.
I cried when I asked him to take them down.
They are still there, staring at me.
They don't have any of me as the man I am today, unless you count the thanksgiving I spent with him.
Why am I the crazy one?
They said it themselves.
Apparently everyone is unsure what to do with me anymore.
The worst past is how insensitive I am made out to be.
I did not swallow my childhood so they could say I don't care.
"You have to think of us sometimes, occasionally, even a little."
I won't be doing that anymore.
Maybe I'm angry and dramatic and verbose, I don't care, call me whatever you want you will not make me believe I am the problem.