© Copyright 2020 by FamilyFriendPoems | www.promosaik.org

Publication by the publishing initiative ProMosaik LAPH.

Printing and binding:

EPUBLI

Prinzessinnenstraße 20

10969 Berlin

www.epubli.de

Source of the poems: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poems/sad/rape/

Dedicated to

All women, victims of rape

Introduction

As you open it, you may think it is a booklet: a booklet with a collection of poems. But closer examination will awaken your senses and you will see it for what it is; feel the pain it represents: and hear the desperate cries emanating from the depth of devastated female souls.

The cries are neither imaginary nor utopian, but part of a struggle, an ever- growing struggle emphatically shared and passionately voiced by women all over the world: women unequivocally opposed to any form of rape.

The rape of women has been a heinous reality throughout history with consequences that include violence requiring hospital treatment; an initial reaction of disassociation and emotional numbness; fear resulting from various factors including a reluctance to tell family and friends, becoming pregnant, or contracting a sexually transmitted infection; feelings of embarrassment, shame, and even guilt; depression while coming to terms with, or recovering from such a traumatic event; and recurrent dreams and nightmares as the brain endeavors to process, understand, and recover from what has occurred.

Rape has been anchored within the souls of all women since childhood irrespective of country, culture, ethnic group, or society. It is anchored in all women whether they have or have not been the victims of rape. Just opposing rape, however, is not enough because rape is a barbaric violation that has to be focused on and stopped.

Focusing on the depravity of rape and the ominous shadow of violence it casts over women requires the heartfelt voice of women to be passionately expressed and universally heard. Such expression can be elevated to the level of significant relevance with poetry wrought from the anguished words of women whose souls are crying out for a rape-free world where respect for human rights also includes the rights of all women.

Milena Rampoldi, Founder of ProMosaik

William Hanna, Human Rights Activist

Black Bird

Painting is for pictures
too hard to understand
so let me paint you a picture
of a girl
who has a little too much to understand..

her heart was a two ton brick in her fist
that kept her pinned
to the exact spot on the ground
he wanted her to be in
when she's 12
and those 27 minutes felt like eternity,
clinging to her sanity
like the last molecule of burned up air in a gas chamber
she slept on cindered feathers
sucking on the bones of her rotting body
holding back panicked breaths
like other kids hold stuffed animals
sinister smiling eyes
venom spit
splashed across her limbs
"You're so pretty.."
you're so pretty.
seeds of fear planted
in a daughter,
whose father,
didn't know,
she couldn't go any farther

the limbs of her body bare branched
creaking away from his whispered breaths
leaves burned up with the heat of guilt
hidden in the smoke are her pleading eyes
her roots ripped up and flung away
with the drop of his pants
gritting teeth sewn shut
with the bone needles of a broken bird
brittle body vibrating
against the pine tree that
looked "so pretty,"
two hours ago

two bodies
two lungs
pressed against the cage
that kept her soul contained
red and blue flashes
translate to blackness
and 6 years later
her sheets are still soaked
trembling with the sound of her own frozen voice
cracking
shattering

melting into puddles she tried to pick up
with dirty hands
and a dirty heart
dripping into the exact consistency
of the mud he left her in
fingernails full of his fingerprints
and the dew on the grass
came from her eyes
and the sheen off her body
clothing buried
and burned
smoking up to follow the bird
that unwillingly flew away

blacked painting hung up
on the pale bone frame
those 18 years and no one taught him a shred of decency
you'd think it should be inked into his humanity
but no.
she sings into the ashes
calling it back
lungs raw
throat black

she can't see his face
she can't know his name
she can't say that
she carved herself up like an animal
creating a scarred picture
everyone's seen before
but few have known
can't say that she breathes a storm
then pounds her body
until her tears turn red
and everything goes numb again
and she can finally believe for a second
your hands aren't his hands
If I knew her what could I say?
that there's something beautiful about skinned knees
and the fault lines in her eyes
and the way she scrubs her blood from the floor
and the fact that I can't stay quiet anymore
the flames my guilt fans
grow brighter when I think
that because I didn't speak
he could have gone on to ruin
another perfect thing
a perfect thing who's picture
looks a whole lot like mine.
They Can No Longer Hurt Me

Blood boiled in every vain,
Like a flicker in every flame.
Tears streaming from my eyes,
'Cause my life is built on lies.
Overpowered by my fears,
So I kept quiet for many years.
The secrets tore me up inside.
With a twisted mind and arms atied,
They took their turns,
So I buried the burns.
I grew up thinking it was my fault.
My fault for every rape and every assault.
Those dark memories still haunt my brain,
And still I feel I'm the one to blame.
Every night I lie awake,
Wondering how much I can take.
If only someone would have listened
To the screams and to the pleads.
Maybe I could have ended it all
And still be able to stand tall.
But enough is enough.
Tonight I will stay tough
And maybe for once they will see
That they can no longer hurt me.

I Just Write

I can't talk to anybody,
I feel like nobody understands,
So I pick up some paper and grab me a pen.
You see me smile, but if you only knew
The things that I hold onto
And just can't seem to let go.
I know I must forgive, and I said that I do,
But I don't really think that I actually do.
Forgive my mother, my uncle, stepdad, and aunt's boyfriend
For the pain they put me through as a kid.
I spoke up, no one listened.
So it continued on and I just didn't mention
The things that went on in the middle of the night.
It happened before, so maybe it's all right.
At 5, at 8, at 9 and 10.
Over and over and over again.
She caught him, forgave, got married, nothing changed.
I'm over it now, I really am.
I think about it every now and then.
Have trouble sleeping at night.
I laugh about it now, especially when I used to sleep with a knife.
I know the only way to get over it,
Is to open up and speak,
But when I spoke when I was younger,
No one heard me.
So you tell me, WHAT THE HECK DO I DO,
When that voice in my head keeps saying,
You're wasting your time, no one cares about you.