life is not a song
A/N: This poem was inspired by Harmonic Friction's The Thrill and the Hurting, which is dark and depressing (and mature) but still one of the best stories I've read, on this site or anywhere else.
Birdsong spills through curtains that flutter softly like long fingers reaching for her throat. The warbles seem to waver into cries as the daylight flickers. A storm is coming. Outside her door, boots thud, chainmail rattles, gruff voices stir. What have I said? What have I done? The days are warm, the nights close. Under the sheets her nightdress slides up her legs, the ghosts of thin cold hands pushing it up, higher, higher. Warmth spreads from between her thighs. Pressing close, her legs stick together. Her fingers flutter over her belly and she shivers, unsure, awake. Her eyes open and close but no matter, all she sees is blond hair, green eyes, a slyly curving smile. Even when he's not here, he's here. Here. He hits her he holds her he bites her he'll break her if she isn't strong. Life is not a song, and to be strong, she must be weak, must weep, cower, and submit. Submit to sharp teeth tugging at her neck and breasts, to insistent fingers fumbling, unrelenting. But it's not fear, now, that makes her body tremble. She starts at footsteps in the hall. Is he back? Her hand has found its way between her legs, and her slick fingers try to remember his touch. He kills, he's killed. Remember Father. The small whisper snakes through her thoughts and fades away.