As she lies in bed, another body hovers over her being.
A grown man thrusting his hips into what we'll call her pelvis
is all she's been seeing.
I know mommy's proud now...right?
because she's been taught that if a man isn't using her, she hasn't done her job for the night.
No father? That's not an excuse.
in fact, she has a dad but all he knows is abuse.
She has a mom, but we don't know what to call her..
or when she'll see her again since daddy turned her into a prostitute.
She's run out of all the right reasons to hope
and found all the wrong ways to cope..
Around her street corner, she's discovered a dope-----dealer
that'll lend her a little something to kill the pain from the scarring rope
burns around her neck she masks with wool scarves..
she's made it this far.
She hides her face from eyes that linger, tracing the cuts on her wrists with her
cigarette-stained fingers, she doesn't know how to escape.
Her body aches, her mind hurts.
The screams outside her bedroom door
or the screams inside her head
which is worse?
Another night she plans to cut
her skin that was once so smooth.
However, she mistakened a pen for a knife
the ball point would just have to do.
In the darkness, ink bled down her wrists, why didn't this pen cause her harm?
Instead of blood rising from her veins, words began to form on her arms.
Tears streamed her face, had she just found an outlet?
She scrimmaged for lined paper, after that, everything was a blur
tears repetitvely fell from her face
as she turned her pain into words.
Days, weeks, months surpassed..and little Stacy's okay.
Her scars sit comfortably on her wrists, but her pain has started to fade.
Although she smiles, and everything seems alright
She's still never told a soul about that night,
when her internal struggles came out to fight
and when she least expected it,
poetry flew in and saved her life.