Sexual Abuse

In My Bedroom

In my bedroom, memories are scars that mutilate and
the emancipation of disfigurement’s friend cannot be.
Love’s presence is neither corporal or sentiment and
the innocent child discards me.

Dirt’s dispenser envelopes me, suffocates, and
oozes from every damaged cell. It contaminates
“could have been?” marking me used goods for sale.

I wish I were untouched, no more of your shadow in
the reflection of me. I want to be beautiful like a
swan sitting peacefully. I want to be clean.

Can’t you see the black rings under my eyes? They are
no allergy. They are time’s record of a childhood
diseased, an innocence stolen.

I want to be touched in a good way. I want to make home
in my lover’s caress. I pity those who believes love is just
a feeling, turning it on and off like a water tap.

There is a merry-go-round of molestation where the
offender’s opera plays eternally in my head. I’m caught
between preservation of fear and letting go.

I wish monsters resided only in fairtytales. 

Copyright © 2017 Angela Marie Suor

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