CLAIMER: the poem in here is mine, and I have copyrights to prove it. Don't make me enforce them please.
WARNING: for mentions of rape and...well, insanity, I guess...
This shadow under my door,
It could be anyone.
But fuck, I swear it's you,
I swear you're the one.
'You're not real, you're not real, you're not real.'
It's my mantra, and it used to work pretty well. Of course I used to sleep with the TV on, lighting the room in a blue-ish glow. Carlton can't sleep with the TV on though, not even if I mute it. Says it distracts him, it's too bright. So no TV in the bedroom now. No TV means no light, no light means more dark, more dark means more shadows, and shadows mean you.
You're in the shadows, aren't you? I know you're there. I don't know why you hide, but I know you're there. You're waiting for me to be alone in the dark, aren't you? Waiting for me to go get a glass of water, because you know my knowing you know makes my mouth dry, my throat tight. But you also know I'll turn on all the lights as I walk to the kitchen. So you're waiting for Carlton to go to the bathroom then. Waiting for him to leave me alone, and I'll try to hide under the sheets while I wait for Carlton to come protect me again.
Or maybe you're just waiting for me to go mad? You might not have to wait long.
Your footsteps echo in my skull,
Send vibrations down my spine.
I wonder how long it will be,
Before you get in this time.
It's my fault, that's what you said.
It was a long time ago, but I still remember. It was my fault, because I was smiling too much. My fault, because I laughed too loudly. My fault, because my jeans were too tight, because I flirted too much, because I danced too close. It's my fault, that's what you said. I still haven't figured out if you're right or not.
My own father's a cop, I grew up with a family of cops. So how could I have let something like that happen? I should have noticed the way you watched me, I should have noticed the glint in your eyes. I should have done something. But when you pinned me against the brick wall in some sleazy back alley, I couldn't move. I felt numb, stiff with fear.
I have the training to protect myself, had it even back then. I was capable of defending my body, but I did nothing when you gripped me and told me not to scream. So are you right? Was it my fault?
You contaminate my soul,
Spread poison to my head.
You're the skeleton in my closet,
The monster in my bed.
No one knows, and that's my fault too.
I wonder, have wondered for years, what would they do? If I told dad, would he be angry? Of course he would be, he always gets angry. But who would he be angry with? Me or you? Would he be upset? Disgraced? If I told Gus, would he cry? Would he feel guilty? Guilty for what, I'm not sure, but Gus always feels guilty when bad things happen to me.
If I told Carlton, what would he do? Would he ever touch me again? Would he feel nasty from all the times he's fucked me? Did my dirt rub off on him? Can he feel it like I can?
I know my thinking isn't very rational, but I also know that's normal for victims. Years of my father reviewing cases with me, taught me a lot on how the victims acted. It's normal for me to be scared, but I don't think that normalcy extends for seven years.
You're always in my mind,
I harbor demons that you've brought.
And I don't know why I run,
In the end I'm always caught.
My insides turn cold when a hand lands on my hip.
I know the callouses, the rough patch of skin on the palm. My mind knows it's Carlton's hand, but my body says it's someone else's. Someone else who got tired of waiting in the shadows. It's yours.
I resist the urge to jerk away, to run into the bathroom where the light's always so bright. It's not the touch that scares me; I learned quickly to get used to touching again so no one asked questions. It's the dark. It's being touched in the dark. I can't stand it because I can't see who's doing the touching, and my mind drifts back to your touches.
Carlton still can't understand it. He didn't know why I kept having nightmares when we moved in together. I didn't have the heart (or the courage) to say it was because he touches me in my sleep. To say it was because I felt sick when he wrapped his arms around me at night, even though I know it's a protective gesture. He thinks it's cute that I'm scared of the dark.
I'm still not used to it, but I got better at pretending.
The tears begin to flow,
Sweat rolls down my cheek.
My body begins to shake,
My limbs feel so weak.
I'm letting you win, that's what a doctor would say.
I read a psychology book once, because I wanted to know how to get better. All it did was say what was wrong with me in the first place. It didn't say how to get better, how to heal. It just told me that the thoughts running through my head were normal. That makes me think that there is no way to get better.
'The victim needs to learn to be in touch with reality. They should realize that what has happened to them is real, and then learn to live without dwelling on the experience.' That's what was on one page. So, apparently, I'm supposed to accept what happened, then forget about it. Embrace it, then ignore it.
I'm sure whoever wrote that book has never been raped.
This shadow under my door,
It could be anyone.
But it's you mocking me,
Knowing you've already won.