To anyone:

I’m vomiting now, a violent revulsion,

My self-made punishment from silent compulsion.

Weeks turned to months as I sought isolation,

My body feels foreign, a twisted mutation,

Mother and father, both think I am ill,

They have no idea of my internal damnation.

The answer is so simple, yet it fills me with dread,

But I need to be rid of the questions in my head.

What would they call me? A victim or whore?

Why had my body betrayed my own mind?

Where was my God when he bolted the door?

Who was that boy who had seemed so kind?

How did my clothes end up on the floor?

Enough is enough, I can no longer bear this,

Life is too tough for existence of fairness,

I am haunted daily by this hellish plague,

The scene is so vivid, but the moment so vague.

It seems that the details will forever escape me.

But what permanently remains,

Is the pain that’s engrained,

Pure terror of paralysis,

Sick psychoanalysis,

My screams and my wails as he raped me.

I can finally flee this agonizing remembrance,

I’m giving into my plea for tranquil repentance.

The boy,

Hands still quivering,

Eventually placed the note back on the counter.

The room was painted in blood.

He couldn’t bare to look into his sister’s eyes.

He gently pried open her fingers,

Just as he did when he was little

and wished to hold her hand.

He wept to himself,

Whispered a soft prayer,

Then placed the bloody barrel under his own chin.