11/27/16
open, exposed, your body hangs lifeless from the metal rod.
sunlight peeks in from the dust covered windows.
he's watching, they're watching. you are never alone.
always watching, waiting, you feel his stormy blue eyes staring holes into the backs of your thighs.
the dull hatred pounds underneath your soft fragile skin. bruises stretch vast expanses of your skin.
you vacantly begin to wonder why you're even
fighting tooth and nail for this one sliver of hope that you might escape.
living after this is impossible.
my spark is dying.
you almost want to ponder out loud "I wonder why this keeps happening to me? why ME?"
but alas, you cannot, you're not ready to die just yet.
YOU ARE READING
every rosebush has its thorns
Poetrymy life, told through a series of poems, a cautionary tale with a happy ending
