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(
[sid] => 8343
[catid] => 1
[aid] => Mick
[title] => Passion Died That Day
[time] => 2002-12-10 11:00:00
[hometext] => These are just random thoughts that poured out of me and turned out to be insightful. Welcome to the world of rape and the destruction it has caused me.
[bodytext] => I am so frickin scared now, I need to get tested and I have no where to send the results and no way to find out what I might have without my parents finding out and now I am afraid I might just be pregnant, of all the horrors I’ve faced this is the worst, what if the pill didn’t work, and why haven’t I started bleeding yet if it did, I’m on the second green pill, it should have started by now, and I know that I can’t handle too much more, especially not now when I am about to go home, home is hard, home is not safe or comfortable, it’s secretive and it’s full of deception and it must stay that way or fall apart entirely and then I lose my schooling and my dreams, as if they weren’t already a shambles after the living hell I’ve endured this year, and here I thought things couldn’t get worse than hospital visits and surgeries, oh but they can, surely they can, and this is it, this is all you live to avoid and all I live to regret, this is all I will remember from this year in ten years and it is all that will haunt me when I try to enjoy the touch of love, if anything could destroy my love for life it is something that depreciates the love I feel from others, and nothing could be more effective than leaving me here to rot like a worthless scrap of flesh, barely breathing, barely willing to breathe, and barely hoping that the will survives and almost wishing that it wouldn’t if only it would bring an end to this suffocating helplessness as I harbor whatever sick and twisted pests crossed between our bodies in the moment when all was lost and my very soul died and I knew that I was no longer alive as I once knew it but I was existing as someone else, reborn to be a skeleton of my former frame as the light in my eyes slipped into the fading darkness of the memories that don’t exist and cause pangs of stabbing accusation when they rise to the surface of my leftover consciousness, barely felt, but agonizing nonetheless and capable of more tortuous depression than any emotion known to the old self, naïve, and ever so happy as it was, and of course never despairing that it would love again and again and age and rest and find the peace that is ever sought hard fought dearly bought and never got, that maze of intricate rightness in the brighter air of heaven has been utterly replaced by this dull thudding heartbeat, all I hear in the darkness of the new soul that fails to appreciate the life it could be capable of if not for these ugly scars and ripped up fear-inducing fog-covered thoughts encased by dreams and lost to those around me, viewed as a statistic, a sad case, a wretched child gone astray, perhaps still loved but unwilling to accept that the love they have to give is no longer enough, it isn’t acceptable, it is, in fact, reprehensible as a sorrowful reminder of the enjoyment I have been forever robbed of having and keeping, the joy I will never know can never be replaced, and a deeper love than any known to me is needed to pierce the walls I’ve built of necessity to protect my fragile skin from further destruction and loss, to keep what I have left of dignity because even I cannot yet admit that all is gone and irretrievably so, and now language fails me and remains, as always, incapable of expressing the need I find within myself, throbbing and nagging and living on when all of me has died, still the need lives on and demands to be filled by what, whatever, there is no way to know and no way to heal and no way to kill the churning beggar within me who reminds me each moment that I lack all worth except what you are so gracious to grant in my state of naked pleading death and numb shocked horror at the atrocity that I must continue to exist without apparent change when reality has turned me into a stranger, and nothing is left, and I am here in this place with fingers that fly and never tell me first what they are going to say and they spout letters of doubt in all that I knew and leave me to wonder why I loved or lived at all and if there is meaning other than pity for me now and if I will ever move on or if my last thought will drag me back to that instant of unimaginable death, when once and for all I faced the prospect of life without life and breath without love. Passion died that day.
[comments] => 2
[counter] => 170
[topic] => 13
[informant] => Little_Miss_Magic
[notes] =>
[ihome] => 0
[alanguage] => english
[acomm] => 0
[haspoll] => 0
[pollID] => 0
[score] => 0
[ratings] => 0
[editpoem] => 1
[associated] =>
[topicname] => DarkPoetry
)
Passion Died That Day
Contributed by
Little_Miss_Magic
on
Tuesday, 10th December 2002 @ 11:00:00 AM in AEST
Topic:
DarkPoetry
|
I am so frickin scared now, I need to get tested and I have no where to send the results and no way to find out what I might have without my parents finding out and now I am afraid I might just be pregnant, of all the horrors I’ve faced this is the worst, what if the pill didn’t work, and why haven’t I started bleeding yet if it did, I’m on the second green pill, it should have started by now, and I know that I can’t handle too much more, especially not now when I am about to go home, home is hard, home is not safe or comfortable, it’s secretive and it’s full of deception and it must stay that way or fall apart entirely and then I lose my schooling and my dreams, as if they weren’t already a shambles after the living hell I’ve endured this year, and here I thought things couldn’t get worse than hospital visits and surgeries, oh but they can, surely they can, and this is it, this is all you live to avoid and all I live to regret, this is all I will remember from this year in ten years and it is all that will haunt me when I try to enjoy the touch of love, if anything could destroy my love for life it is something that depreciates the love I feel from others, and nothing could be more effective than leaving me here to rot like a worthless scrap of flesh, barely breathing, barely willing to breathe, and barely hoping that the will survives and almost wishing that it wouldn’t if only it would bring an end to this suffocating helplessness as I harbor whatever sick and twisted pests crossed between our bodies in the moment when all was lost and my very soul died and I knew that I was no longer alive as I once knew it but I was existing as someone else, reborn to be a skeleton of my former frame as the light in my eyes slipped into the fading darkness of the memories that don’t exist and cause pangs of stabbing accusation when they rise to the surface of my leftover consciousness, barely felt, but agonizing nonetheless and capable of more tortuous depression than any emotion known to the old self, naïve, and ever so happy as it was, and of course never despairing that it would love again and again and age and rest and find the peace that is ever sought hard fought dearly bought and never got, that maze of intricate rightness in the brighter air of heaven has been utterly replaced by this dull thudding heartbeat, all I hear in the darkness of the new soul that fails to appreciate the life it could be capable of if not for these ugly scars and ripped up fear-inducing fog-covered thoughts encased by dreams and lost to those around me, viewed as a statistic, a sad case, a wretched child gone astray, perhaps still loved but unwilling to accept that the love they have to give is no longer enough, it isn’t acceptable, it is, in fact, reprehensible as a sorrowful reminder of the enjoyment I have been forever robbed of having and keeping, the joy I will never know can never be replaced, and a deeper love than any known to me is needed to pierce the walls I’ve built of necessity to protect my fragile skin from further destruction and loss, to keep what I have left of dignity because even I cannot yet admit that all is gone and irretrievably so, and now language fails me and remains, as always, incapable of expressing the need I find within myself, throbbing and nagging and living on when all of me has died, still the need lives on and demands to be filled by what, whatever, there is no way to know and no way to heal and no way to kill the churning beggar within me who reminds me each moment that I lack all worth except what you are so gracious to grant in my state of naked pleading death and numb shocked horror at the atrocity that I must continue to exist without apparent change when reality has turned me into a stranger, and nothing is left, and I am here in this place with fingers that fly and never tell me first what they are going to say and they spout letters of doubt in all that I knew and leave me to wonder why I loved or lived at all and if there is meaning other than pity for me now and if I will ever move on or if my last thought will drag me back to that instant of unimaginable death, when once and for all I faced the prospect of life without life and breath without love. Passion died that day.
Copyright ©
Little_Miss_Magic
... [
2002-12-10 11:00:00]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: Passion Died That Day
(User Rating: 1 )
by Daniel on
Tuesday, 10th December 2002 @ 12:19:49 PM AEST
(User
Info | Send
a Message)
|
| whoa... that's one big insightful ramble!! all i can say is don't dwell too much on the problem. yes there is worry and yur life seems a bit screwed right now, but there is always hope on the horizon. if you can't speak of this at home, at the very least you should find someone close to you whom you trust to spill all of this on... get advice from them. i hope all works well for you. kudos! ;0) |
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Re: Passion Died That Day
(User Rating: 1 )
by wyrd_faerie on
Tuesday, 10th December 2002 @ 03:42:31 PM AEST
(User
Info | Send
a Message)
|
| this is so sad...i feel for you...if you ever need to talk, i'll listen |
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