I stood in the shower
for three hours
after the first time.
Bits of my skin floated down
toward the drain.
It was so hot that the steam
rose and covered me
but it never got quite hot enough
to wash away
your prints from my skin.
I tried.
How childish of me to believe
I could ever wash away
all traces
of what you did to me.

You know you want it too.

I’ve never felt so dirty before
like all your bad intentions
were released inside me.
You didn’t even try to pull out
at the end.
And now my skin is branded
with graffiti
of your hands and kisses
the glaring evidence you left all over me,
trying to lay claim to territory
that was never yours to begin with.

Just relax.

After the second time
I couldn’t sleep for three days.
I stayed in bed
for three whole days
so my family thought I was sick.
How could I tell them about the illness
that was threatening to kill me?
No one would ever believe
I was slowly dying
because of sex. On the third day
they tried to coax me out of bed.
Told me they missed me.
I told them I was missing me too.
And they looked at me
like maybe I was the one
who was crazy. Could it be?

If you ever tell anyone, they’ll never believe you.

The third time it happened
I started bleeding profusely
and the blood ran from me
like it would never stop.
I almost drowned in my own blood.
It was my mother who found me.
She slapped me across my face.
Are you crazy girl, she asked me.
You could’ve died, she screamed.
Don’t you ever think about anyone
besides yourself
All I’d been doing was thinking
since the day you first
stole from me
something you had no right to own.
Since you moved into my body
and made me feel like I was the one
who was trespassing. Locked in
my own skin, I’ve been trying
to escape since you decided to move in.

Everybody knows the type of person you are.

It’s scary inside my body now.
I never noticed the voices before
and I never knew how hard it could be
to clean away built-up grime and dirt.
How did I get so fucking dirty?
I’ve been washing and bleaching
and cutting, trying to excavate
the filth you filled me with.
It’s not easy to fight a terrorist.
That’s why I’ve never signed up
to be a soldier in a war.
I never wanted a fight.
All I ever did was say hello.

Peace & Love,


About Rosalind Guy

I'm broken & my soul is weary/ my weary soul rebels, fights/ anything & anyone who tries to heal me/I beat my head against a wall of memories/ trying hard to break free from the chain of memories/ I can only be free by saying it so/ i weave a necklace from words and finally/ I find freedom/ free free free. As you can see, words are powerful to me. As Maya Angelou said, words are wallpaper of the soul. I have lots of nightmarish memories that threaten to break me, but I learned a long time ago about the power of words. They can be used to heal and destroy anything that threatens to destroy the person. Words coupled with love have the power to save and heal. I am author of three books: Skinny Dipping in the Pool of Womanhood, Tattered Butterfly Wings, and Blues of a Love Junkie. I am a high school English teacher. I am a former reporter. I am a mother. I am a woman. I am a fierce advocate for those who cannot speak for themselves, those who's voices go unheard. Check out my Amazon author page at the following link: http://www.amazon.com/Rosalind-Guy/e/B00BGH5F88/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1432491754&sr=8-1.
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