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RaeAnne English


Most of you new nothing but my name,
my name and its negative fame.
But every day I’d face the torment,
of having my energy torn and my emotions bent.
I’d show not even a blemish of pain,
regardless of the vein you’d use in my name.
My outer shell would never glimpse to be weak,
Though internally there was a doubtless leak.

they grew like cancerous tumors,
and I couldn’t help but wonder which would cause the worst pain.  
I was barely passed the age of thirteen,
I had no idea that sex would turn out to be so mean.
He was nearly 18 but far from a man,
too worried about upping his hit list to give a damn.

I probably would’ve picked the tumors at my all time low,
Then maybe, just maybe
 I would’ve stopped hiding behind all the vicodin and blow.
The verbal abuse became stupidly profuse,
until eventually I was internally broken.
All of your lies turned into my silent cries,
And soon I really knew what it was to be alone.
Betrayal became my new best friend,
Because I knew it was the only thing I could depend
For even those who claimed they were a friend,
came to side with the lies in the end.
And though unknown girls would have replaced the world to have their names among the tips of tongues that mine were.
They had no idea the envy I felt for them.
I would have safety pinned my lips to have silenced my name, to have made myself invisible.
For the ability to walk through the halls like I wasn’t even there,
Because most of the time just that trip down the hall was too much to bare.

And no, it wasn’t fair
And no, I never stripped
And no, I didn’t have a std
And no, I didn’t fuck everything that came my way.
There was just that one, and quicker than he came we were done.
but the rumors still grew,
like cancerous tumors,
and I still couldn’t help but wonder which would cause the worse pain.  

It’s been six years and the word slut still makes my stomach cringe,
Because it reminds me of the times I used to binge,
in hopes of turning the emotional pain into something physical.
Something of my control,
Because even though vicodin made me ill it was still a quick and easy fill
for the emptiness.
It’s been six years and I can nearly count the number of men I’ve slept with on a single hand.
That word
shouldn’t mean shit to me.  

But I thank you,
Because it’s been six years and I’m internally stronger than the ocean’s biggest waves.
See today, I make most of you tremor with my presence because you know you would have never been that brave.
And I laugh,
Because six years ago, you wouldn’t be hating the me of today,
You’d be hating you.

Usually they’re broken,
Bits of fantasy and reality forged together into a senseless story.
A token,
of invincibility
for despite the disaster your survival’s inevitable.
Occasionally you awaken in fear or bliss.
For a tornado turned inside you and put you in need of a certain kiss.
I wonder if when your dreams decide your soul’s not to keep,
if that’s the reason you die in your sleep.
They say the closer you are to death the more alive you feel.
It’s ironic you can be asleep when that sensation seals.
Nightmares force us to face our fears,
and the good ones display our greatest dears.
I ponder if we dream after we’re dead,
or if that ability dissolves when we’re no longer fed.
They tear us from actuality and make the unthinkable attainable.
If given the choice of that
and life,
I doubt I’d have an answer at the hands of a knife.


Buried beneath layers of mascara and eyeliner,
there hides a beautiful little girl.
A little girl attempting to carve herself away in hopes she’ll portray sexiness.
A boy soon recognizes her thought intentions.
First a touch, then a kiss, and a thrill of excitement.
Then suddenly pain, blood, penetration.
And just like that it’s over,
almost as quickly as it began.
Then tears, flashbacks, discomfort.
She suffers the same emotional traumas as that of a violated victim.
Though she acted willingly she still aches.
For underneath the push up bras and g-strings there still lies innocence.
Innocence that’s been rapidly raped away,
but in this case the perpetrator wasn’t the boy.
this tragedy was struck by the hand’s of society.

We’re born unclothed,

and since, I’ve been undressed near a million times,

but for the first time I feel exposure.

An unknown sensation of vulnerability floods throughout me.

For once I’ve given another the opportunity to deeply damage me,

break me.

Fear suppresses sunk inside me,

For history points us in the direction of failure.

Faithfulness is unfamiliar to the two of us.

Maybe we’ve stumbled amongst each other to break our past chains of adultery.

The conclusion is left unknown.

All that’s granted on my part is the power you hold over me,

the ability you have to ruin me.

The fact that for the very first time,

I am naked.