Caution: Contains references to a psycologically deminishing situation.

I let it wash over me with a numb degree of care,
Politely agreeing, quietly seeing, unknowingly pleading,
And then I’m bleeding.

I let you take it from me unbeknownst of your thievery,
I stand only ignorant to my consciousness,
But I am really screaming, not dreaming,
And then I’m bleeding,

And now that I know, now that I see your face,
See your sickness affecting my sanity,
I can’t put it into organized thought or reality
So how am I supposed to write it that way?
Sitting, fitting into the skin of a victim,
Drinking, not thinking, slowly sinking,
And then I’m bleeding,
I’m not agreeing,
I’m not dreaming,
You are real,
I can feel you,
And then I’m screaming,
No…f**ck you!

I couldn’t admit my ignorance,
For ignorant is how I wished to stay,
Until I could walk away,
And never turn around,
Or hear the sound of the complying truth,
And how could you ever understand,
What it was like to be taken advantage of.

Maybe someday you’ll wake up,
Turn your eyes and face up,
To find yourself overtaken in a state of weakness,
Knowing nothing from the bleakness,
But the obvious situation of sickness,
Forced upon you by the sickening distortion of a wanting mind,
Wanting what they couldn’t have and other way,
Until you’ve drank yourself forgetfully drunk,
And they’ve decided to have some fun,
And you don’t know what was done,
Afraid to know, with no memory to show,
Only the screaming in your head,
And the blood upon your bed,
And when you try to wash it away,
The stain seems to stay,
And new ones are made,
When you discover that when the blood is gone,
The bleeding continues on.


I highly suggest this poem is not judged on basis of rhyme or stanza. We do
not cry in rhyme.
 
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