If I’m a bad person, you don’t like me
Well I guess I’ll make my own way
It’s a circle
A mean cycle
I can’t excite you anymore
Where’s your gavel? Your jury?
What’s my offense this time?
You’re not a judge but if you’re gonna judge me
Well sentence me to…
I THINK I STILL HAVE AN IMAGINARY FRIEND. WELL, I ACTUALLY NEVER HAD ONE WHEN I WAS A KID. AND NOW I LIKE SIT HERE AND HAVE FULL BLOWN CONVERSATIONS WITH MYSELF.
I LET THAT SLIP IN CLASS ONCE AND MY CLASSMATES AND TEACHER ALL LOOKED AT ME FUNNY. BUT IF I DIDNT TALK TO MYSELF, WHO WILL I TALK TO ?
I KNOW I HAVE FRIENDS, LIKE 3, AND I CANT TALK TO THEM AT EVERY MOMENT OF THE DAY. EVEN THO ME AND MY BESTFRIEND TRY TO. I THINK ITS IMPOSSIBLE. BUT WHATEVER I HAVE AN IMAGINARY FRIEND, I SIT AND TALK TO HIM/HER ALL THE TIME. I’M NOT ASHAMED OF IT
It’s funny how a photograph catches the dainty
Back on the screen
In images naive
And hungry For life
Your eyes Even now
To another world
I longed for too long
And not long ago turned away from
But now you’re here again
In prints the imprints
Of my blurred vision of you
To the tone of those summers
This is where I exhale
To the harmony of the song
I wrote to let go myself of you
Discover the lines of bad poetry
I scribbled into notebooks to exorcise you
Slipping off my tongue and on to the page once again
I remember once
Having caught me mid-scribble
I persuaded you to write in the notebook
I had pulled from my pocket
A drunken poem
Amid that pinch from the party
And afterward I read those lines
As if it was a screenplay I had to learn
– I burned my eyes into that paper
And for years after, still
I cannot bring myself
To write another word in that book
As if I was waiting for the story
To fill those blank pages in time
It’s funny how a photograph
Catches the light
It’s still a mystery to me man,
Like idk whether to go ghetto about it, or keep it classy
I guess there’s only one way to find out:
I couldn’t imagine anybody being robbed of their innocence until it happened to me
It has nothing to do with blaming anyone but about the way my life has never been the same since then.
I was introduced to molestation assault and rape at such an early age… Too early if you ask me
I didn’t know, nor did I want to know what it was, are you kidding me?
But then, my imagination ran wild for it never came up, or was spoken of/about in an African home.
I longed to be understood and be protected.
I longed to talk and make sense of it but my lips were sealed
I wanted to understand what made me so scrumptious as a child or what made me so unimportant to be treated as such.
Never did it cross my mind that I was innocent & that I had done nothing wrong.
I lived life blaming myself and trying to find explanations to situations that I’ll never comprehend.
The cycle went on, as men kept taking advantage of me, and I let them. Though I was tough, I was young and I didn’t know how to defend & detach myself from that.
I suffered through the touches.
I feared for my life every single time hands were tightly fitted around my throat.
I tried to put pieces back together, as I was asleep or drugged.
I shook through being cornered and having nowhere to go.
I cried through saying no, a no that has never been heard.
Through it all, I kept quiet.
Through it all, I was dying slowly.
Through it all, noone ever understood.
Why I was changing.
Why growing breasts came so fast.
Why I was happy and frightened when my period came at 11.
Why it mattered that I stayed pure, regardless of how many times I had been touched.
Why I was growing up way too quickly.
Why I had and still have so much anger in me.
Why I refuse to believe that noone saw the changes.
That noone could be there to rescue me.
That not even once, it clicked in anyone’s mind that something was incredibly wrong.
That this tragedy was happening to me. To my life, the life I always thought as perfect.
I blamed myself for being another statistic. Then I turned to blaming every single person I could blame.
It could happen to anyone, I didn’t understand it then, but I do now.
What I mean by statistic is keeping my mouth shut to flee from shame. To protect someone who saw pleasure in destroying a life. Who found nothing wrong in his acts.
All my life, I had to fight.
It shouldn’t have had to be that way. It didn’t need to be that way.
I wanted to worry about other things little girls worried about.
I wanted to smile more and be free.
I wanted to be pure.
But I couldn’t be.
Everyday of my life, I think of how someone is going to view me. How someone will see right through me. How someone won’t understand why I could never let go.
I worry about not being loved.
I worry about being judged and pitied.
I worry about the same thing over and over again.
I guess it is the dilemma of what life is like when it shifts.
I can be classy about it but I won’t be.
Because like the uncle that touched you, for me it is like the many men, the many “uncles” that touched me.
The many hands & lips that remain free.
The many eyes & heartbeats that remain unmoved.
Yet I ain’t free. Yet I am scarred.
Like the uncle that touched you, the “uncles” that touch me, left me wondering what life would be it if I wasn’t so stained.
Would relationships have worked?
Would friendships still be alive?
Would fear be a little nonexistent at least?
Would sex be less painful, more meaningful? Would it be a necessity?
Like the uncle that touched me, would I know the true meaning of freedom?
Written by NickyDee