literature

the aftermath

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MisfitableGrae's avatar
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Literature Text

the temple of her body was torn open tonight,
desecrated and lit on fire. i swear, gods have burned
and felt less pain than i do as i write these words down,
because she’s crying in my bathroom right now and i have
to go and convince her that the handful of feathers
i have left in my palms could ever equal the wings he snipped
off of her tonight. she will never fly again. she will never
believe so wholly in herself again. her body is no longer
a temple, her body is a landmine, an open wound, a thousand
foot drop off of a bridge, a stranger to her. she will never
again be able to trust her body, to know her body.

this is not the first poem i’ve written about rape. but this is
the first poem i’ve written about rape when my hands
are shaking and i have a twenty second phone call still ringing
in my ears. it’s not about statistics anymore. i cannot
distance myself from the cold, hard facts by using pretty
metaphors about dissolving and beginning anymore
because a girl i remember growing up with is crying in my bathroom
right now and i have to go and try to convince that
her life is still worth living. how can i look her in the face
and tell her that bodies are temples,
that her body is precious, that her gods are strong and holy and
they will do anything to protect her sacred flesh?

how can i possibly stomach anyone ever complimenting
her again when i’ve heard her whisper the words he told her,
in the dead of night, when we’re holding onto
each other in the middle of a hurricane. “he called me pretty,”

she says. pretty. like pretty is a password
through a sacred door of resistance that has existed as a barrier for
generations upon generations of women, like pretty will excuse
your crimes and absolve you of your sins. pretty, like it’s a holy word,
like saying pretty on repeat will drown out her ‘please stop’s.

i can’t think of what metaphor i’m supposed to feed her now.
her temple is in shambles. no gods will step within a foot of her.
she believes in no temples, in no gods. what am i supposed to
transform her body into so that the next time she catches a glimpse
of the dark bruises on her throat in the grimy reflection of a mirror
she won’t reach for a bottle of sleeping pills?

darling i swear that your body is a forest,
your body is a city, your body is an ocean,
your body is a militarized fort, your body is a tree house
with a ‘no boys allowed’ sign stapled to the front door.
and if you can ever believe in anything again, please
believe that your body is yours and i will spend the rest of
my life trying to make up for the one night it wasn’t.
thank you for reading this have a nice day i'm sorry the world's so shitty right now
© 2014 - 2024 MisfitableGrae
Comments21
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wolfdog7's avatar
From one survivor to another... head up and march on. Time doesn’t fade the memories but learn to love the fight. It’ll bring meaning down the line