It's Happening
It's Happening sexual assault stories

kassaundrachur1 Hurt has a Heart in the form of words.
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
Painting is for pictures too hard to understand

It's Happening

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 11

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



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.

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