IT

A poem about rape.

It’s eyes were bright

bright filled with the promise of future

yearning for what it could be.

When it was younger

it’s mom told it that it would become something,

something special.

It would look into the mirror every morning

It would smile

a  smile that would travel forever

Today would be another day;

another day to take on its dreams.

It would walk down the street

buds in ears,

humming along,

voice sweet and melodic

not a care in the world.

It walks down the street

listening to music like any other day.

It is smiling;

you see it;

but it does not see you.

It does not know of you till your hand is on its mouth,

Till your hand digs a knife into its back,

Till your whispers breach its ears,

Till your whispers breach its ears.

It’s clothes are but paper as you rip them off.

Your hold its wrists together;

it tries to break free our your hold;

twisting and turning under you body

screaming for help

desperately calling out for...

You push a knife to its throat.

It whispers now:

begging you to stop,

begging you to let it go.

Your sweat drips on it.

It begs again now

For it to be over,

For someone to hear its cries,

For someone to make it stop,

For someone to end its pain,

End it.

It walks down the street.

It does not listen to music.

It does not let its mind wander.

It walks briskly to its destination.

It does not feel special;

in fact,

It feels repulsive,

Unwanted,

Disgusting,

Like it’s skin

is permanently slimy from your touch

It looks in the mirror;

but it does not smile.

It looks in the mirror and only feels hate

for itself

It’s eyes are vacant,

Lifeless.

How dare you rob the brightness from its eyes

And

How dare you strip its title.

For it is a he

And he was never an it