The Abyss of my own Dirt

Every Sunday, I do my laundry

I separate my feelings from my heart

I pick and poke at all of my flaws

I bleach my skin

Scrub, Scrub,

The dirt won’t come off

I wear my pain on my sleeve just like my heart

Packed into a box so tight

The screams are faint

The scars up & down my legs

For each & every person who has crossed me

For every man who has abused me

I tell myself I will heal

But how am I supposed to heal when my story is silenced

Instead I open my legs

Like an open book

An orgasmic feeling of trust and I pour myself into a cup half full of hope and happiness

That someone will understand me

And not judge me for my wounds

That someone will believe that I’m innocent when he followed me into the bathroom

That someone will believe that I never asked for what I was taught

I run from love because I never knew it

What does it mean?

So when people say I don’t deserve love, I believe it

I have a cold, miserable heart

I rather slice my wrist up than to voice my significance

Overshadowed for 18 years and every bit of attention I get feeds my soul

That maybe I have been heard

Yet everyday something new is taken from me

Whether it be my dignity or my confidence

I have nothing left

I can not be survived or replenished

I can not be loved because I don’t know love

So when he asks me “why are you cold?”

I just say that I live in a world where everything is dark & lonely

That my soul has been drifting

That everyday is wintertime

So I stay in bed

I self medicate




365 days in a year & I’ve never seen the sun

So when it comes to Sunday

I do my laundry

I separate my feelings from heart

In hopes of reaching a clean start for the next week


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