The vocal cords
Gearing up themselves
To accede
A series of expletives
To mix with breaths
Taken in
Let out
The reek of alcohol
Prominent in those
Noxious enough
To kill good mortals
In the world

Bracing myself
I take posture
Of a statue;
Swallowing hard
I let the drapes
(My greasy hair)
Shield my face
If not my heart;
My eyelids
On their own
In harmony
(Unlike souls)
Falls down
Like stage curtains
An end
To all the hopes
Those were actors
In my eyes
Born
And died
A million times
Till now;

A defensive stand
From all the malice
That was yet to embrace me,
Take me in its repulsive
Wings;

Coldness
Dousing the fire of light
The candle of desires
Tinged with faith
Darkness
Darkening my being
Scaring the demons
Living within me
In reserved suits

This man
Respires spikes and spears
My unfortunate ears
Craving for deafness
Free from any impairment
Picking it all up
Gunning those down:
My eardrums
(The traitors)
Where my heart is
Or the jagged shards remain;

The split heard
With a satisfying "crack"
My limbs going numb
From the exertion
Of preventing myself
From letting go
My own spikes and spears

Salty water:
Shameless drops
Trickles down;
Criminals escaped
From the deepest corners
Of my essence
Voicing my fears
Betraying me

His victory now established.

The woman's laughter
Like screeching bells
Resonates in my ear
An inaugural ritual
Followed by her own service
Ensuring
I was not having an impaired heart
But an impaired body too

My eyes
(Those traitors)
Voicing my terror
Speakers of my soul
Screaming intervene
At what she was about to do

Helpless
A reflexive shriek
My vocal cords
(Those traitors)
Let go
Voicing my terror
Speakers of my soul
Screaming intervene
At what she was about to do

My hands
Go down
Sheltering my thighs
From her
On their own accord

All in vain
When she raises my skirt
Branding my thighs
With the scalded spatula
That finds pleasure within her
Equally scalded fingers

The record
Of his words
On my body

Their marks
Of accomplishment
Of a broken daughter
On a broken daughter:
A member
Of this broken family.

****

A/N : Written from the Point Of View of a fourteen year old girl who breathes broken poetry, from the broken depths of her soul.

Verbal abuse might just be verbal. For those who have dead hearts.
But they are spears and spikes who have buds of hope where heart is.

Especially when remnants of hurt are stamped on bodies

Tattooed on souls

Caged within the walls

Of this inescapable reality.

***

This was written from the author's pure imagination.
©VioletEden

My submission for #PoetryWithPurpose-A project initiated by tamoja on the often avoided topic, Abuse.