Whispers from the trees

Softly teasing, you mock my still and frozen corpse,

The leaves have fallen, the ghosts all lay bare.

Ice tears, dead now, rolling off my empty face,

Dead but moving, they poison my hair.

 

My screams hang silent, lost without a role to play,

My naked body, exposed to all the world.

Once a candle, beauty of the warmest kind,

Now just empty, an ugly melted girl.

 

Your eyes just mock me, you love me frozen at your feet,

Out your knife comes, ready to destroy.

Slow, you cut me, I feel no pain for I am dead,

A broken body, a perfect sacred toy.

 

Blood, it weeps now, deeply red and staining me,

Crying softly, across my snowy skin.

Creeping slowly, a web of blood across my chest,

A bitter beauty, the threads of all my sin.

 

The startling elegance, blood on snow and snow on coal,

You cut me open, and kiss my blood-stained lips.

Deep, you search me, the snow growing redder still,

Deep, you hold me; my soul burnt by your tips.

 

You will not find it; my heart is broke beyond repair,

You may find pieces, alone and gnarled by grief.

But still you search me, my silent body dead to you,

No more snow now; innocence was brief.

 

“Daddy, stop it,” the whispers breathe through the trees,

“Mummy, help me,” the pleads are tears of dew.

“Grandma, I’m sorry,” the water trickles with my shame,

“Grandad, I love you,” the ammo you will chew.

 

Done, you leave me, an empty bloodied frozen corpse,

Dead, I’m alone now, my heart a ruptured core.

If I may live again, I know I will not be the same,

The girl you tortured; a girl to you no more.

 

 

This poem is written to try and convey several things. Mostly it’s to convey the loss of innocence as a child, and how the person I might have been without abuse, was killed in that moment. That abuse is it’s own kind of murder. It’s also me trying to make sense of the biggest mind-fuck for me – that the abuse was senseless, that I was just another girl to them, just another toy…and once done with me, they’d just leave my broken remains in a heap and not care about what happened next. For so long I have managed to cope by simply hanging onto the idea that all of the pain they put me through, all of the torture, all of the grief and terror….it was horrific but it at least meant I must be important to them, worth something to them, that the pain at least held some meaning, however twisted. Since realising that this is not the case, that the abuse happened simply because they gained a kick, and if it hadn’t been to me it would have been to another girl – there was no attachment, no meaning, no even slight and warped bond… the pain was meaningless to them, the horrific abuse just a game. And when finished, I’m just left behind – broken, wrecked. It’s to represent the harsh truth – that whilst I was being abused there was some kind of beauty that came from feeling the abuse at least meant I was worth something to them, that the pain wasn’t senseless. Once that bubble was popped, my whole world came crashing down…the beauty disappeared, and I realised I was nothing more to them than an object…I meant nothing more to them than a toy to play with. Suddenly my pain felt far worse, as it was senseless and meaningless to them. Suddenly, I felt they’d killed me, ensured my heart was broken, and left me as a corpse…

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5 thoughts on “Whispers from the trees

  1. I think one possible meaning of the pain is that you matter to yourself. it made no difference to them that you suffered, but it matters to you. And it also matters to me that you suffered. If they had done terrible things to you, and you had felt nothing, then none of it would have really mattered. It wouldn’t have mattered what anyone did to you or how you were treated. But it caused you a great deal of agony, and so to me that says it does matter how you are treated. It didn’t matter to them, because there is something wrong with their ability to care–they aren’t really fully human–but there is nothing wrong with you. You responded the way any normal child would have. Take care.

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