Bloody Fingers, Broken Mind

M O M M A

TRIGGER WARNING: contains mild content and implications of sexual abuse and self harm.

Senior year and I was so ready.
Graduation and prom
were on my mind,
Never mind keeping my
final grades steady.

My eyes were on the
back of your head,
But your eyes were on her.
Thinking of how to get
her into your bed.

My heart clenches every time
I think of her in
nothing but your shirt.
I always picture it being me,
But knowing it never will be
will always hurt.

Momma always warned
me about boys like you.
Boys that use all the
good girls like gum to chew.

Would I ever listen?
Would I ever take
her words into consideration?
I always try, but every time
I see you my eyes always
seem to glisten.

So maybe when your eyes
actually met mine I
should have known.
I should I have ran away.
I should have ran before
my heart would have to be sewn.

Momma told me boys
like you would leave me
nothing but broken.
I really should have listened
before letting all this happen
and letting all of these
future words go unspoken.

But how could I resist
when you put your hand
next to my face and
gazed into my eyes?
It's not like my vulnerable
heart could see right through
your petty lies.

You spoke to me as if
I was the only one.
You held my hand as if
it wasn't just for fun.

You kissed my lips so softly.
You reassured my insecurities
constantly.
I still should have known though.
I should I have seen through
your "We'll take it slow."

I was so damn naive.
I really thought everything
you said I could actually believe.
I guess you got what
you wanted.
A slow dance, too many drinks,
and the rest of my life haunted.

Momma warned me
about boys like you.
She told me she was sorry
as she handed me my
hundredth tissue.
You took my first prom night,
you took my first kiss,
and most importantly you
took my light.

You stole so much from me.
My innocence was ripped away.
And how could I not see?
Momma knows best.
You'd done this so many
times before.
So why am I handling
this the hardest?

I'm sorry Momma.
I've failed as a daughter
and now I'll never get over
this trauma.
I wish I could have
done you better.
Now I'm at the low point
of hiding scars under my sweater.

I wish things would
have turned out different,
But there's no hiding the fact
that I was just another
participant.

Maybe the next time
Momma warns me,
I'd listen and still be
worthy.