~Esther Mitchell, 2014~
To the person who claimed my desire to escape Hell a cry for attention:
Give your advice to the child whose innocence was ripped away,
The little girl whose childhood evaporated,
As she begged for deliverance that never came,
Rescue that never appeared,
For a protector who never appeared,
The sins of her assailant washed in blood red, bleached white and painted tropical blue.
Tell that little girl she’s not entitled to her pain,
When fear held her tongue for decades,
But not fear of what he would do,
Instead the fear of what no one else would do.
Tell her she’s a liar,
A manipulator of facts and hearts,
When she still cringes from a mere touch,
Decades gone, she screams,
Flees the very sight of tropical fish, blue-lit water and tiny pebbles held in glass.
Tell her she doesn’t know what she feels,
As she vomits at the stench of bleach,
And searches every crowd in panicked fear,
For a face she knows is still out there,
His face, her nightmare never dead and gone.
Tell her you understand her pain, her Hell,
Pretend you care where she’s been,
Go ahead, I promise you don’t know,
You don’t know the smears of blood washed from tiny, shaking hands,
When she carved five letters into her own flesh,
No child should ever know.
The word he called her,
When he told her she asked for it,
She made him the monster he was,
Dirty, shameful, abomination,
Driven into her innocent flesh repeatedly,
Barked into her ear like a rabid dog,
Until it ripped open something deep inside,
And bled a soul of innocence, of self,
And left only hatred – of self, of love, of life.
So tell her to be quiet,
To shut up and stop seeking help,
When she’s already lived a lifetime in silence,
Afraid to reach out,
Hearing only the steady drip, drip, drip,
The maddening memory of innocence bled away.
The spatter of blood on bleached white tile,
When she tried to bleed away the whore she saw in every mirror,
The twisted, tainted Jezebel,
Possessed of a tattered soul unfit for life,
Reflected back in haunted eyes,
Full to the brim with silent screaming.
The drip, drip, drip,
Of a life down the drain,
Carried away by whatever dulled the pain,
And took the screaming far away.
Tell her she doesn’t mean it,
When she stands on the ledge,
A knife in one hand,
Pills in the other,
And contemplates which one kills her faster,
So she doesn’t suffer here one instant longer than she has to.
Tell her she’s not serious,
Because she can’t hear you through the screaming,
Through the terror, and those rasping words,
She’s not killing a woman or a girl,
She’s dispatching of a monster,
Because that girl is already long dead,
And the woman never had a chance to live.
So assuage your conscience however you feel,
It changes nothing.
Only the certainty it solves nothing,
Stays her execution.