Masked Without A Voice

This is an introduction poem to the abuse I lived with for many years.

Written By : © Serena

The truth I hold, took years to unfold, locked up and never told. 
Now I speak, for I am done being weak. 

A story I will tell, awakening the pits of hell. 

Pinned against the wall, being six a little small.

Tongue against my chest, you can imagine the rest. 

Touching, feeling, my eyes rolling to the ceiling. 

I push away, forced down, I am here to stay and pray. 

Day and night, always full of fright kissing, sucking, nonstop fucking. 

Crying, weeping, always happened when they’re sleeping. 

Was I that bad of a kid? 

Why was I auctioned with this demon to bid? 

Sold to the pervert in the chair, dragged off stage by the strings of my hair. 

No one cares about you he said, cutting my wrist wishing I were dead. 

He’s right, you see, all these years no one gave a damn about me. 

A puppet I am to him, dangling from limb to limb. 

The years pass on by, I have no tears left to cry. 

I escaped this hate, no more videos left to tape. 

Visits became less and less, I’m starting to grow up a mess. 

Drinking here, smoking there, my life is hard to share. 

Making friends with the junkies, parading around town like diseased monkeys. 

Every day that goes by, I feel ashamed and left to die. 

I tried to share my story to those I trust, but all they wanted was my lust. 

Met a boy, come to find out I was just his toy. 

I wanted to help his soul, but instead I paid his toll. 

Being punched in the face, always leaving with a trace. 

Left in harm’s way, wasted with no place to stay. 

Wandering the streets, giving myself to men with sheets. 

Crying while we fuck, gasping for air the more they struck. 

I always gave myself for free, it was you who ashamed me. 

No respect for myself, no metal to place on a shelf. 

Falling down to dirt, clothes stained, blood stained skirt.

The cold making me shiver, drinking the flask and damaging my liver. 

Why should I care about my life, here I go carving myself with a knife. 

Blood dripping down my thigh, hatred fills me like a high. 

All numb, can’t feel a thing, the mourning doves ready to sing. 

I am not dead, just hanging by a thread. 

The ambulance speeding so fast, all I can see is a movie of my past. 

All stitched up ready to go, put your cloths on you stupid hoe. 

Here I go this life I lead to know, take a seat and watch the show. 

Dancing for their eyes to see, please God set me free. 

A man took me home that night, my eyes sparkled full of fright.

He was addicted to drugs, veins shot up, full of bugs.

Leaving me in the ghettos, dreaming I was frolicking in meadows.

Touched and abused I was, just so he could get a meth buzz.

Smoke filled air, the smell is hard to bear.

Watching him fly like a kite, he cheers me while I get fucked in the night. 

His eyes so black, pinning me like a thumbtack.

The years passed on by, still living my past as a lie. 

I did survive this life, I have now retired my knife. 

Scars still there, people look at them and stare. 

I am sad at times, past full of all these crimes.

Smiling to all, putting my hands out, breaking my fall. 

I would like to share my voice, it’s up to me to make that choice.
It’s real, genuine and painful. A beautiful writer, really brought to light the pain that accompanies “living” as a victim, and the strength of a survivor.


4 Replies to “Masked Without A Voice”

  1. Its like you read my mind! You appear to know a lot about this, like you wrote the book in it or something. I think that you could do with a few pics to drive the message home a bit, but other than that, this is great blog. A great read. I will certainly be back.


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