Lish_Ford18

A decorated house, so bright, so warm,
A present wrapped, a Christmas norm.
Red ribbon gleamed on a gift wrapped tight,
Beneath the tree, aglow with light.

The tinsel shimmered, the baubles gold,
A gift so wrong, a truth untold.
Excited, I grabbed it, not feeling the sin,
Unknowing the truth behind his grin.

A sudden chill, my heart filled with dread,
Confusion swirling, clouding my head.
The warmth was gone, replaced by fear,
The awful truth now crystal clear.

His hands explored, without my will,
I stayed in silence, my body still.
"It's just a game," he softly said,
A whispered lie, my heart misled.

The ribbon sparkled, a cruel disguise,
What once was joy now burned my eyes.
A twisted gift, this cruel game,
Christmas never felt the same.

Boxing Day dawns with a quiet sigh,
A day that makes me question why.
The pain it holds, the scars it shows,
A silent ache that no one knows.

My body is a battlefield of flesh,
Scars like trenches carved deep in my skin,
Each cut a soldier fallen, lost, distressed,
Silent witnesses to wars fought within.

My thighs, the front lines where the battles rage,
Silent wars etched deep, but never shown,
Wounds that whisper secrets on the page,
As shadows fall and pain remains unknown.

Tears fall like rain on fields that know no peace,
The mirror shows a soldier, weary, worn,
The blade, my weapon, offers no release,
On this war-torn land where hope is torn.

Yet through the smoke, the darkness still persists,
A distant bomb that never seems to land,
Though battered, bruised, and scarred by endless twists,
The night consumes, and hope slips from my hand.

My skin was a blank canvas,
My arms a new page,
My thigh an empty sheet,
My body a hushed stage.

A stage for unwelcome thoughts,
Masked and hidden tight,
A calm and silent release,
A comforting sight.

A sharp-edged silver paintbrush,
A stained metal tool,
A sharp and pointy pencil,
Spiteful and cruel.

Creating pools of crimson,
Splashed with cherry paint,
Hidden scarlet sketches,
A ruby red restraint.

Unerasable drawings,
Constantly displayed,
Permanent illustrations,
Unwilling to fade.

No sudden urges swayed your mind,
Just a clear path, steadily defined.
Actions deliberate, not wild and free,
No spur-of-the-moment, no instant spree.

Your choices not by chance, but by design,
Each move deliberate, every decision in line.
No sudden urges pushed you along,
But a clear plan, stable and strong.

No brief impulse guided your hand,
But thoughtful intent, meticulously planned.
No fleeting whims drove your decisions,
But calculated moves, with clear visions.

No random acts with torturous theme,
Each step part of your grander scheme.
No whimsical urges clouding your sight,
But deliberate moves causing fright.

No random urge, no spontaneous chase,
But thoughtful moves, at measured pace.
No sudden pushes, no forceful shove,
But a steady plan, devoid of love.

Bodies contaminated, tainted by his sin,
Trapped in cycles, impossible to win.
Forced into silence, bearing heavy weight,
Burdened by shame, consumed by hate.

His secrets, like poison, pollute the mind,
A toxic legacy, leaving souls confined.
A heavy burden, a relentless toll,
Dragging us down, consuming our soul.

Indecent secrets, festering despair,
A forced silence drowning in air.
His selfish poison seeps deep within,
Engulfing darkness, suffocating skin.

His secrets fester, gnaw at the core,
Consuming spirits, leaving them sore.
Forever imprisoned by his deceit,
A constant shadow, a bitter defeat.