poetry

79

smoke:

it started with hands—
his hands, not my own—
rough like sandpaper, soft like lies.
his breath, rancid, crawled down my skin.
my skin which has been stained with every word, every whisper, every touch.
my skin. no longer mine.
my body. no longer mine.
instead ive been strung like a puppet.
his to own.
his to use.
i am nothing but an object.
here for what feels to be an eternity.
here to satisfy his need to take away my humanity.
to take every ounce of whats left of me.

i told myself id scream,
but the scream never came.
it stayed locked in my throat,
a prisoner in a house of horrors,
and every night, it built a wall thicker.
i kept quiet.
i let it happen.
and it continues still,
over and over.
i didnt scream because i was afraid,
afraid of what he would do to me if i showed the world my pain.
i still wont scream.
for what im living now is better than whats yet to come once i voice my fears.

theres no poetry in what he did.
what he does continuously,
at every chance he gets.
no metaphors. no similes.
no honey to sweeten the horror that is me.
my life. everything ive lived through and everything i still do.
nothing to cover up these sins.
just flesh on flesh,
his weight crushing my ribs,
and silence that echoed like gunshots.

the world pretends it doesnt want to see this—
because they always look for the neatness,
a bow tied around a broken girl,
as if pain comes with beauty.
but pain is just ugly.

i scrub until my skin bleeds,
but it never washes off.
i feel him everywhere—
in the waters embrace,
in my shadows smothering grip,
in the creak of my bedroom door.
in the quiet after the storm.

anger doesnt come in screams.
its silent, creeping.
it twists my stomach like a fist,
turns every mirror into a battle.
i hate him, yes.
but God, i hate myself more.

i am nothing but smoke.
thick, black, acrid.
i cant breathe;
i choke on the fumes of my own mind.
the smoke lets me think,
then it takes away my thoughts.
a cruel game that was made only for me to lose—
to show me hope was ever mine to hold.

i relive it all, over and over.
his hands, his eyes, his voice.
i feel it in my organs,
in my intestines as they shrivel and hide away in disgust.
and i feel it in my bones,
the marrow stained with his memory.
every inch of me is his crime scene.

if i say what ive seen,
say what ive felt.
theyll say its not my fault.
theyll say, “you can heal.”
but healing feels like a storybook lie.
there is no happy ending.
because where is my happy ending,
when my beginning middle and end will be this?

i cant see the exit,
not through this fog,
not through this hatred that gnaws me hollow.
this is all i have—
a cycle of nothing,
a spiral of disgust.
the remains of a life taken too soon.
the echoes of what could have never been fatherly love.

and i wonder if maybe—
just maybe—
theres no clearing at all.
only the smoke.
and the waiting.
for it to take me,
or for me to take myself.
or maybe he will.
maybe he will grow tired,
of using my body as a tool.
maybe one day, this man i once called "father"
will grant me the end i cant stop wishing for.