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Hannah Smith Poem
Since that day, I find ways to cope,
behaviours and rituals to repeat,
the actions that help me sleep.
Before I go to bed I have to check that the door is locked,
the door is locked. The door is locked.
I know that if I don't check it I will be okay,
the world will not end, no-one will come in,
I am safe.
Yet,
every night I still have to check.
The door is locked, the door is locked, the door is locked.
It's funny the effect a person's actions can have on another.
Before the thoughts clouded your mind,
before you bowed to them,
I could fall asleep without the sound of the TV,
I could lower the lights,
I could dream, without the nightmares filling my head.
But now when I fall asleep, I check the door is locked.
It's locked. It's locked.
Copyright © Hannah Smith | Year Posted 2017
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Details |
Hannah Smith Poem
Today the boy who sexually abused me got married.
I.
I got to spend the day feeling like the contents of my overfilled stomach were going to cascade out of me.
I got to spend the day glued to my screen, pretending I wasn’t feeling guilty, disgusting and a failure.
I got to spend the day hoping to catch even a glimpse that his bride left him. To hope she saw the light.
I spent the day feeling physically and mentally nauseous at my inability to speak about it.
I spent the day convincing myself that it really wasn’t that bad, perhaps I overreacted. She would be fine.
Whilst he married the ‘love of his life’, I convinced myself that one day I too would be loved enough.
The broken carcass of my soul would be good enough for somebody.
Today.
My sexual abuser got married.
Copyright © Hannah Smith | Year Posted 2018
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