i am a product of wreckage. i emerged from the ruins with bright green eyes, and found myself clutching the left behind polaroids of a broken family. i would get no warm meals, no cornbread sitting on the table, no help with my homework.
i would get dark eyes and screaming, sometimes a slammed door if i was unlucky enough.
i am a product of the grievance of war. when conflict has been resolved to a certain extent, i am the reminder that it happened, and that soldiers are humans too.
i am a reminder that even the bravest have morality crisises when faced with the worst tragedy and the least humane thing watchable.
i am bad memories. i am smoke and gunpowder, i am the feeling of being unsafe in the hands of someone that is supposed to do the saving.
i am the product of a soldier raping a young woman with no future but the ashes of a village and the tribal blankets rubbing against her bare shoulders.
i am the product of the scariest part of war- the unseeable, the part no media wants to report.
i am a child of rape.
it has ruined my life.
july 17th
sam
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thoughts ≠ sx
Poetrysomething in between a rant book and a book for a girl to ramble in. [ @clairescovers ]
