It all started with a softly mumbled phrase..

Received and pre-conceived by a virgin mind

Nothing more thought of but a friend doubled in size,

Maybe somebody interesting to talk to.

Day after day the soft whisper became louder.

And soon enough, her mind unwound its locks and bounds to display the Holy Grail for the slayers of stainless fun.


The word ‘pure’ was ripped out of ‘spurred’ in her vocabulary after that day.

She no longer spurred that sense of righteousness in others,

But induced a sense of impurity in herself.

That same life which was once represented with a Crest smile, and beautiful piercing eyes

Soon replaced with that of the desolate and vile, and an insecure look which wasn’t even considered to fall under depression, not even mild, yet screamed out for help with a voice so loud that the ground under her feet shook every second of the day and every episode of her life. 


One look at her and you could feel the pain stabbing at your bare existence.

Every breath like a knife rasping on her skin.

It was only five years ago, when she had cried because of a fall.

Yet here she is, now, wishing she had died during that fall.

Hanging on by a thread made of false hopes and unstable dreams.

An awkward mix of two parts sanity one part fatigued inhumanity.

Burdened with anti-depressants and drowned in questionnaires.


She was no longer human, but a mix of what society calls the broken and unwanted.

She was one of those that every mother warns about.

The bad kid, the druggie.

Labeled as the ‘untouchable’.

But once she was broken, what was the point in mummifying her soul in Band-Aids and smiley-face stickers.

Wiping away the blood with alcohol soaked napkins labeled “go-on”.

When all she wanted to do, was go back…


The odd one out was what she was called.

That’s what she was now.

Bath after bath, cleansing after cleansing.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

The clean was dirty, but the dirt didn’t matter.

Her vergiftete Geist now etched in the bowels of her solid existence.

She was one of the poisoned, one of the lost, and a whisper had started it all.


Some said she hid behind a veil,

She said the veil hid her.

Clothes can’t hide scars,

But why attempt to hide them,

If nobody wishes to see them in the first place.


That one word with an unthinkable meaning..

The one we repeated day after day and ignored in our minds.

We bombard the world through a megaphone that screamed out “We understand”, but it’s not true.

We didn’t.

And we won’t.


It’s not the same, to walk down the hallways of your school with running mascara because your boyfriend dumped you, than to be fighting for life with every step, because you feel wretched and terrible, dirty and unworthy.

A blistering swelling in your heart tells you that you’re not worth it.

You were a mistake.

Matter of fact. You deserved be have been ripped consciously from the sane world and dragged chest first into the abyss of the broken.


What is worse?

To hate yourself?

Or to believe you deserve to be hated..

That you deserved what happened to you that day?

That the world said, you are doomed.

That Mother Nature spat in your face and laughed.

That God let the heavens crash on your body and left you as nothing more than a bad dream.


But you don’t think of that, you hold onto that single thought,

Mistakes happen.

Maybe god made a mistake too.

Maybe it was just all a dream.


But soon you’ll wake up and the truth hits you harder and harder every time.

You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain't about how hard you hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.

That one phrase looping through your mind like an overplayed advertisement as hot pools of pain are drained from your body.


Standing motionless in front of your mirror staring at a person which nowhere near resembles you.

‘She’s a fake’ your mind whispers to you. ‘I know how I look, this isn’t me.’

But it is.

You’re now nothing more than just a number, added to the yearly average of occurrences, but not even that matters.

You only care about one thing.

You were raped.

And it all began, with a whisper.

This poem is about: 
Our world


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741