'USED' - A poem
Updated: Oct 28, 2018
As not many of you know...
I don’t feel a thing
Why am I not affected by something that has shaped me?
Something that’s scarred me?
I can’t love someone without doubt in my heart
What am I good for?
People are weak when I’m in the way
I’m not worth what they give
Despite what they say
I’m just a lump of experimental clay
And just…tossed away
By that time I was a sick, pale grey
Stone cold, rock hard skin
Fragile to the touch
And with the years that passed
My memory faded
So now I can’t remember much
But it’s there
Somewhere dark and solitary
Making me itch
And beg for release
Does anybody want me around?
Would anyone miss me if I were gone?
Or would my absence go unnoticed
Just like my presence
Perhaps I wouldn’t mind
I would take invisibility if it meant I could be by someone’s side each and every night
There is more love in my heart for others than hatred reserved for myself
What I didn’t deserve
Has left me disturbed
The dusty old doll on the shelf
Placed out of reach like a trophy
But not treated like any form of prize
The more that I pray to be polished
The more I feel I’m despised
Thinking back it was strange
I felt everything and nothing at once
I could feel his tongue tracing my skin
I could feel his fingers inside of me
and yet I was devoid of any pleasure
He was whispering in my ear
Begging me to touch him in a way that seemed far too valuable for me to take responsibility for
But valuable to who?
He didn’t seem to share that concern so why did I?
It didn’t feel right and, by right, I mean it didn’t feel the way I have been brought up to believe
There was no fire
No burning lust
Every fibre of my being just felt…cold.
Empty. Trapped. Dirty.
I found myself scratching at my skin
Filled with regret
Wanting to be clean
Needing to forget
I stood in the shower completely entranced
Thinking back on it now I still don’t understand how my knees didn’t buckle out from under me
There were tears falling down my cheeks but no sobs escaped my lips
I could still taste his saliva mixed with mine
It was cancer of the mouth
I spat into the sink until my tongue was dry
But it was not enough
I wanted to reach inside myself and tear out the flesh that he’d claimed
Does it matter who or what or when?
The point is it happened and now I’m infected with a terminal virus
I can fight the effects but still it’s left it’s mark
A permanent scar on my barely beating heart