Needles at the dentist

chanel mconnel

Rape. I hate that word.

My boyfriend tries to convince me that years after I had sex with you that you raped me.

But I have seen you since and you appear to be a model citizen.

 You have assaulted me an additional two times since the first but there are so many amazing things that you are.

A father. A son. A husband. A brother. I'd hate to ruin all those amazing attributes with a single word.

A rapist.

I refuse to dub you as that even though what you did to me still haunts me today and I can't see white without having a mini heart attack.

I feel like my body isn't my own and like I should just let men violate me.

All these are side effects from having sex with you?

My boyfriend says that's why it isn't sex.

It's rape. It is rape. You are a rapist.

But I hate that word.

 

"How do you feel today," asks my therapist.

"Slow," I answer with a groggy lull in my voice.

I feel slow. I was up late last night crying from hunger pains and the memories that you have left engraved in my brain.

I woke up feeling slow.

I use running for clarity and my usual route took me an extra half hour to finish.

My boyfriend had broken up with me months ago but last night was when I knew we were finished. When I knew he had moved on. I was over him I thought.

I miss him so much though.

He believed I was strong and gave me the leverage to work on myself and the benefit of the doubt when I didn't know what was happening with him.

But he's done with me now and I feel like I'm done with trying.

Trying to be happier or get better. So I feel slow, like the weight of the world is weighing me down as I try to get out of bed.

I've become slow and careless. I don't waste my time with silly little precautions.

I'm slow crossing the street and don't look both directions. I stop wearing bike helmets. I stop being carful of how I shave and don't particularly care if I nick myself.

It's when I feel alive. It's when I feel.. a bit less slow.

It's reminds me that I have a heart that beats blood through my body.

And I have skin that is fragile and breakable.

But my blood clots and I go back to being slow.

 

My anti-depressants are bandaids. They are a temporary fix.

Liquor is a temporary fix to put my life into hyper speed.

My bandaids aren't enough to stop my pain but they are enough to make me numb.

I become addicted to my bandaids and how they make me feel numb.

The time when I feel something, something real is when I'm with you. I feel fear.

That's all I feel now; numbness and fear. I don't want that anymore.

So I will us my bandaids until they create a think layer on my skin. Protecting me and suffocating me.

Coating my throat with a thick feeling of numbness like the needles you get at the dentist; they bring pain to numb you from something more painful.

My bandaids will adhere me to the ground until I'm stuck there, passed out, barely breathing.

 

I am alive without living.

The only difference between me and a corpse is that my chest rises and falls and i have a slow, rhythmic pulse.

It’s like an alarm. I’m almost dead but every time I breath in or my heart beats it shocks me back to life.

You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive. I wish the pounding would stop.

It rings in my ear the way nails on a chalk board ring. It’s satisfying in the most twisted way. Like u almost wish to be putting yourself through the pain.

Once a friend told me, “pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place.”

I know this is true I know pain will go away but the problem is happiness is also temporary and it will subside and pain will take it’s place.

You can’t rely on pain subsiding and things getting better cause it gives false hope and things get worse too.

Every morning when I’m heading to school I spend lots of time pick out the perfect outfit.

An outfit to impress people. One that makes me feel good.

But you don’t care about the effort I put into picking that.

You only care about seeing what’s underneath and deceiving me to get to see it.

“I won’t show anyone else. This stays between us.” He says as he asks me to make myself vulnerable.

I spend 10 minutes to pick the perfect picture to send to you. I would’ve spent more if I knew you were gonna show them to everyone.

My fragile skin wrinkles and cracks with every person you show these to.

You send it to ur friends and they ogle at what’s underneath the outfits that I pick so strategically every morning.

You don’t c the cracks and welts in my skin though. It’s my head that makes those appear when I look in the mirror.

I wish I could shed this skin for a new one. A skin that you didn’t show to all your friends.

  • Author: chanel mconnel (Offline Offline)
  • Published: October 2nd, 2017 01:01
  • Comment from author about the poem: This poem is very special to me. I wrote it starting at the age of 13. I finally wanted to share it with someone
  • Category: Sad
  • Views: 20
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Comments1

  • BRIAN & ANGELA

    WELCOME CHANEL ~ Thanks for your first Poem ~ It is very graphic and flowing with Female apprehension. I work in an Adult College (16 ~ 25 ~ I'm 34) and i hear stories similar to Yours in counselling female students. Many married Men just see "intercourse" with a Young Lady as "scoring" but it is very different for the GIRL ! I like your description of the MAN~ Father ~ Son ~ Husband ~ Brother ~ Most MEN are like that but still abuse Young ladies. I am Single no kids and have NEVER "made love" without the Girls consent ! You hint @ self harming & drinking etc which can b very dangerous. I trust you found writing this open confession cathartic and that it will help you to walk on higher ground ! MPS is a very empathetic site and Female Members will empathise with you ~ OK. Thinking of you ~ and praying things will improve ~ Yours BRIAN (UK) Please check my Poems ~ Thanks B.



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