The First Time You Broke Me
**Content warning: depicts abuse (please skip to one of my more lightheaded poems if one needs to).
To you, your abuse began as a game or joke,
so insidious, so quietly inhumane,
a spontaneous, cautionary tale, and yet,
so quickly it transpired into something much more.
Church was unsafe, school was unsafe, and finally -
you made my last safety net, my home - a prison.
I had just turned five, the first time you wrapped your hands
around my throat, and thrust your thumbs through my windpipe.
The weight of both your knees crushed my infantile chest,
so I couldn't possibly, even gasp, for air.
I squirmed, a silent whimper, and tried to break free,
but I was only five, and you were thirty-eight.
Your whole body was like a boulder upon me.
My eyes weeped, and I tried to beg, but had no breath.
My small hands weren't enough to get you off my throat,
and in the end, despite my effort, I'd pass out.
And to you then, I was your lifeless figurine,
your sick play-thing, your ragdoll, your real-life puppet.
Then awake some moments later, gasping for air,
the nightmare continued, with hands around my neck,
until I was so asphyxiated - I shook.
As I lost air, I'd break out into a cold sweat,
my vision blurred and hazy, my voice laboured, coarse.
I would lay there confused, dazed, scared, broken, alone.
When I next awoke, oft a necktie held my hands,
and like clockwork, you'd seethe, spit condescending tones,
shout obscenities, lies, curses - unbeguiling.
Whilst your hands again, found themselves glued to my neck,
suffocating me over and over and over and o'er,
whilst all my dreary eyes, through tears, saw was 'father'.
And, as if my father had not yet been depraved,
he'd oft strip me, of all remaining dignity.
Then once his hours accomplished, his anger unleashed,
he'd leave me unconscious, half-naked, on the floor.
He'd wipe his bloody hands clean and feel 'job well done',
and ensure to lock the bolts on that bedroom door.
09.03.2024
Copyright © Charlotte Watkins | Year Posted 2024
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