The worst crime

Rape in itself is not the worst crime. No. The aftermath is. The invisible rape that happens over and over again every time you close your eyes.  That shiver that runs down your spine whenever someone places a hand on your shoulder or jumps out and shouts "boo" at you. They way you hold your keys between your knuckles everytime you have to walk alone at night. The way your heart races when you are home alone and hear a noise in the house. No the actually act alone isn't the worst. The worst is feeling unsafe in every aspect of everything you will ever do. The worst is smelling his cologne everywhere you go. Sensing his presence when you know you are alone. The worst is breathing everyday. Just breathing when all you want to do is stop.

The worse is how your body decays in every spot that he touched even years after. I am rotting from the inside out. He injected dirt into my veins like a drug.

The worst is scrubbing until your skin is raw, until the water runs cold, yet still being consumed in filth. The worst is how one act, done by one person, or even a few can so alter everything about you. Like my DNA has been rewritten. The worst thing is how it replays in your mind like a broken record that continues to skip.
Or how small it makes you feel, so powerless.  Such a greatness of nothing.and how that nothing consumes you. Then you wonder how being nothing can be so vast.  How feeling like nothing can become something that lasts forever.

The worst is trying to believe that your body is anything more then a wasteland when you know that that's all it ever is, and was, and ever will be. Daring to think that maybe you are beautiful and  deserving of more and having the mirror tell you that that is a lie.

No rape in itself is not the worst crime. The worst is how that one act wipes away everything that you are like an eraser on a chalk board and now all you are is the things that have happened. Now I am pain. I am hurt. I am the cuts on my skin.

The worst is feeling like you are lying everytime you say that you are more then what he made you.

His hands

I learned to question what love is by the way his hands felt. The ruffness that they always were. The way they accompanied the glare in his eyes and the smile on his face. They way they grabbed,  pushed down, held down, the way they never let go. I questioned his love when he used those hands to sweep my hair back and whisper in my ear, telling me that this, this is how daddies show their love as his hands grazed my body. He was the animal and I was the pasture. I was filled with green luscious grass and beautiful flowers and a sunset that mesmerized anyone who watched it rise. But he clawed away at my pasture, ripping it to shreds. He poured hot acid all over me, now I am nothing but a wasteland where nothing grows. A place where nothing but darkness resides. Patting me on the ass as he walks away as if to say "that was a job well done" "you did good" I did good. I let you destroy me. I let your hands ruin everything that was mine, they reached inside my soul and pulled out what makes me real, what makes me exist. And now I lay in this bed as an empty shell of nothing thinking of him, and him and that one and that one to and the money that they paid and the way they all smelled and hands....hands, hands everywhere crawling all over me like spiders always searching and looking to take more when there is nothing left already.

I was once beautiful and untouched a delicate rose who just wanted to grow and bloom and become what I was ment to. Then he came and cut me down while telling me that he loved me. I laid there dying trying to reconnect my broken stems, then he came again, and they all came in, carrying hatchets in their hands, cutting me to pieces, plucking off my beautiful petals and carving the word LOVE into each one, leaving me there as nothing, leaving me there to wait for the wind to blow me away.

Once I was untouched and then the day came that he told me he loved me and his hands molded a wasteland out of my body like it was clay.