only survivors understand.
others cannot seem to comprehend
your feelings of anger
for yourself and for the antagonist.
your entire body quivers with fear as the flashbacks slither their way into your thoughts.
you shut your eyes,
but that only allows the darkness to seep into your soul.
you don't feel like the protagonist in the novel;
you feel like the fool.
embarrassment creeps in like the assaulter in the night,
taking your most preserved gift,
the one thing your tender body had full control over.
the attack leaves you scared.
scared of your own body.
scared to open up to another.
scared to trust.
scared of lust.
but trust me, darling.
you aren't the only one.
there are other survivors out there
who are just like you.
unique in the circumstance,
same in the result.
you may feel alone,
but you're not.
I'm here to tell you that the anxiety gets better.
the attacker's eyes will start to fade from your memory and you will start to allow yourself the comfort of another person.
you will start to open up and to trust
and you will no longer be afraid of your own body.
the wounds will form into scars.
you will never be the same person again,
but you will be created anew.
you will find that the hardest person to forgive isn't the rapist.
but the agony lies within you.
do not let the awful action of another hold you hostage any longer.
forgive yourself and you will free your soul.
Copyright © Maura Webb | Year Posted 2015
Based on a true story from a television documentary on Human Trafficking...an international crime with participants from a broad spectrum of society...occuring on a daily basis. I have only seen documentaries on the trafficking of young girls between the ages of 5 and above!! Law enforcers, it seems are fighting a losing battle against the men and women who sell and enslave young girls and I have no doubt, young boys as well.
Somewhere this day on planet earth
A Mother-to-be, while in labor, cries
Not so much for the mounting pain
Nor the fear of possible death
So many fears for the future…
“What lies ahead in the coming years?
What “fate” will meet my child?”
And added to all her heightened fears is…
Will she be there to protect her child?
Those dark years have now passed into decades
When Tanya walked the shadowy streets of the city at late night
While kids her age slept peacefully in their beds
They made her dress up so she’d looked twenty one
Days were spent locked in a room, under watchful eyes
She was fed cheap fast food to her young heart’s content
Soon she'd lose all hope of liberation
This was the second man she had been sold to
And after a while she’d adapt to the situation
Still fresh in her mind was that last day at school
In her backpack was her favorite teddy bear
Her Mother had chosen to believe her step-father again
Now that her twelfth birthday would be in a month
As no one cared, she decided to run away
While at the bus station she met this “nice” couple
Who listened to every word she spoke
They promised her a ride to any place she wished
And she’d always wanted to see Disney land
“Maybe, she thought, it’d be a birthday treat”
However, that would be another promise broken
Weeks dragged on and they bought her “stuff”
Although treated well, sometimes she still felt alone
Then one day came the grown up clothes and make up
That night her innocence was stolen once more
Later she’d try to make an escape
Only to be caught and tied to the bed post
‘Make it easy on yourself and accept your “fate”, she was told
That was years ago, although it seems like yesterday,
When arrested by a new officer on the vice squad
Who saw the flaw in the picture before him
The pimp gave no reasonable answer to the simple question
‘Why are you parked late at night on the street corner with a minor?’
Looking back over the years, she came to conclude that “Fate” is just another word, made up to cast aside blame; when we do not want to see the path we’ve chosen which has led us to our present state
When Pilate symbolically washed his hands, though he had power in that moment to act..
When there before him stood truth and innocence,
Yet, he chose to make a comfortable bed for his conscience
Today, Tanya is a college graduate and a Mother who has vowed not to leave anything to “fate”. She’d teach her children to take responsibility for the choices they make…
She would teach them that no one is of lesser value than another..
Male or female; black or white, all hues; rich or poor
All have a God given right to live free!
For: Richard's "Girl Rising" Contest
(3rd Place Win)
Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2013
I am outside the circle of sex. Just as well. Population control,
the biome's survival instinct. Or I'm old. Look
in mirror, skin over bones. Young girls
on bicycles, running, have that granddaughterly smile for me,
all is safe, well. Much is well.
The neighborhood safe,
the nation a non-violent helpmate among nations. Until
food shortages, weather crises, nuclear mischief apply.
Police patrols. I was proud of Massachusetts
voting to decriminalize reefer. Let's go all the way:
free all non-violent offenders from their cells! Force police
out of cruisers to walk the streets and say hello.
What else can we try:
Open the border with Mexico. Let labor
flow like capital.
What has this to do with the self,
the temperamental, fragile self. The one that leaves no footprint
in eternity. No smell.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
The roaring bull
enters the arena;
clouds of dust raise.
Then the slender matador
in tight attire arrives;
he has no knowledge
of who is watching.
The prettiest girl
in traditional dress
has set eyes on him;
her posture is elegant.
A red flower in her dark hair
suggests an inflamed passion.
It's a scorching day
in Madrid; the fan she holds
does little or nothing
to keep her cool.
Thoughts in their minds
contradict; she's the admirer
from the balcony.
He is the fighter in the arena.
He must kill that bull
to win her; fierce are his looks
while his hands keep on fanning
the red cloth to gain control.
He can't lose this fight;
he must win at any cost.
It's a battle of strength and pride;
man against animal.
Ah, the bull succumbs to injury...
maestro grabs his horns and claims victory!
" O Matador, my matador...
you are the bravest one in all Spain! "
Stretching her arms.
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2016
She claimed her rights as a young lady
And in the coming years a woman
She don’t want to be an endangered species hunted by violence daily
She got rights too…she’s a human
Stand against this bliss
Gender Base Violence a sure diss
No more verbal abuse, emotional abuse or physical abuse
It’s your rights to reject abuse, so claim it, good news
You can only be his victim
Only if you allow yourselves to be used by him
You’re no longer going to be told…shut up!
You’re worthless, or what you say is meaningless…Just stop!
Or you’re stupid or call you names to graphic to repeat
After that, he says he loves you you’re so sweet
Well, decide today…that behavior is unacceptable
The truth comes before the love…Whether Sharon, Susan or Mable
Cause if he truly love you
He won’t want to abuse you
Are my words credible, Gender Base Violence become a label
Let’s take action and fight with all our might
“Claim your Rights”
©Copyright November 28, 2011 by Brian Pierre-Alexander
© All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Brian Pierre-Alexander | Year Posted 2013
The Martyr Girl
Arabic Poem by: Jasem Al-Khafaji*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
In your absence,
Dreariness, in every class,
Has been the prayer of the break..
Every teacher calls your name,
His voice falls slaughtered, in pain, on his lips..
In every standing and every sitting,
Your class condoles with your desk..
Without you there, the schoolyard feels empty
The bell sounds strangled as it tolls for you..
Oh, grief of all schools!
Oh, weariness of all lessons!
Too young to be gone..
Your mother wished to see you a bride..
Vacant was your stand in the lines and rows
For the flag ceremony
The flag was raised..
The blackboard is missing your words
Saddened with no words to spell
“Dar” … “Door”
When your braid caught fire,
The kids tried to put it off with your bookcase
Their hands were too small to carry water..
May God help your mother..
Your mother, who, in her grief, turned white,
Like daylight upon your coffin
Your mother, who, with slaps of grief,
Drew skipping squares on her cheeks
Your mother, who raised your hand in prayer to God
Your mother, who used to come to get you,
At the end of the school day
Your mother, who, not even once,
Received a teacher’s note complaining about you
Your mother, who is wrapping ribbons
Around your pictures
In madness after you
God help your mother, who, in her grief,
Turned white like daylight upon your coffin..
O God, May all bombs be paralyzed,
And all blasts be blinded!
* Jasem Al-Khafaji is a poet from Iraq,
The poem is in Iraqi folks spoken dialect
Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2014
i like to dress for an imaginary girl
(we will meet each other soon) by putting on
a silk tie with subtle Chinese birds
she may be picturing me in her mirror
as she applies exactly the necessary line
of mascara to lengthen her lashes and darken
whatever begins as a mystery ends as a
blind, the nuances so well known
that birds chirp violently at their mirror images
but the pools
as they are revealed in the sunlight of
every accidental nod of the eyes remain
calm as a mirror in which there is no
image ever seen.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
Helpless a girl can do anything
She have the ability to do something
People may think, she always fine
No reason to think that she won't any guilt
Copyright © Mohammad Hafiz | Year Posted 2015