Poems from the dark

I look like her (Trigger warning)

Broken Biography.
That's what I am.
I am NOT an autobiography.
This is not the life I would write.
This is not a chapter I would add.
I wish I was nothing more than a disorder.
I wish I wasn't this too.
When I was younger, not too young, just younger.
I remember my mother, my mother who dedicated every fiber of her being to my safety, telling me about the woman.
The woman who said the only answer to "Have you been sexually abused? Is Yes or I don't know."
I remember thinking, "how could you not know"
The answer is because you don't.

I am not a prude.
I am not a slut.
I am not a virgin.
Or maybe I am.
I don't know.
The thing is, I can't quite remember.

I've never been kissed.
Or maybe I have,
See I don't know.
I remember the moments leading up to what may, or may not have been,
a kiss.
I can't quite recall the outcome.

See in a room full of dolls she chose me, as a plaything.
A Pink canopy bed my dollhouse, my trap.
Truth or dare we called it.
I didn't understand this new game we'd found, but I rode it like a high.
My first high, eight years old.
When the game ended she said we probably shouldn't tell anyone...
I must've done something wrong...

She wanted to play the game.
I didn't want to lose my friend.
I thought it was strange.
A sick twisted mess.
She called it a game.
Like Russian roulette.
And so we played,
again and again.

I remember her tongue.
Yes, her tongue.
And her eyes.
They were black.
Her soul crushing, ghost watching eyes,
Staring back as she looked up from my breast.
She was warm.
Too warm.
She left her heat like an impression.
I can still feel her steel breath.
And the warm of the words that sprung from her lips and leapt onto my chest.

I hate the summer,
it's wet heat reminds of the secret 
I've remembered and can't get behind in me.
In winter I can breathe,
not much but a little.
Long sleeves are my enemy,
I need to freeze.
Freeze off the heat from her tongue and her hellfire eyes.
Freeze off the heat that leaps to my face with each fresh set of lies.

Baby fat, it rolled over her hips.
The older I got, the more curves I rocked.
The more they all gawked, as I walked and they all talked until it was like I was deep in a slumber.
My words all outnumbered by their thunderous wonders of how I looked once undressed.
They were all so obsessed with my sex.
But that baby fat kept coming back.
I look like her.
I can't stand to look like her.
Oh god don't turn me into her.
I can't be her.
I can't see her.
Don't eat.
Retreat.
Don't eat.
Retreat.
Don't eat.
Defeat.

This is not an autobiography.
This is an outside story.
I didn't choose this table of contents addendum,
Based on the nonchalant referendum that wasn't overturned.
This was the story written.

My narrative has been marred.
Someone smeared shit on my art.
But maybe brown is the color I needed.
I have been so mistreated, I have been so defeated, I feel so depleted, like a month in a flame.
My wings are burning, please refrain, from blowing me out.
This is my fire, it's how I'll fly higher.
Or it would be.
If the heat didn't trigger my PTSD.