Sunday, March 29, 2009
FINGERPRINTS
Today, I sit and reflect on all the bastards I have been with. I feel their rusty fingertips colliding against my coffee skin. Sometimes, I shiver at the aroma of cologne. The inability to recant any of those pigs weakens my spirit, devours my soul and quite frankly, creates a harsh resistance to a trusting relationship. IF YOU CAN'T HANDLE TRUTH - STOP NOW AND GET OFF MY PAGE.
It all started when I was a mere lassie, close to six years old or so. Playing hiding-go-seek with the neighborhood boys who always seemed to be looking for jollies. Teenage babysitters getting their rocks off too. Even mature relative cousins seeing what IT was like. I suppose its easier to get it from someone who is younger because they have no idea what's happening. Taking advantage of innocense is what I call it.
Why was I the target? Where was my mother? How come she didn't protect me? How come I didn't know it wasn't okay?
Today my confidence has been raped. Today I have visions of those bastard rubbing and tugging over my surface. Today, snippets of their ruff hands play in my head over and over. The attic, the station wagon, under the preschool table, neighbor's laundry room, and the list continues . . .
Inside I am screaming, but no one hears my pain. No one really understands the trauma, the outcome, the afterlife, the risks, the neverending reputation associated with me no matter how hard I try, and most all, the paralyzed judgment regarding love. Yes, I have had some great men come into my life, but I have also come across some creeps too. Problem is - the good ones I didn't seem to recognize. Still not sure if I would be able to target them.
Countless men who have taken MORE than their fair share of my goods. Not enough fingers and toes combined could tally a number. Sad and pitiful that no numbers can be assigned to something that is supposed to be a precious production of life. Those fingertips have forever printed my life. My past haunts me everyday, no matter where I go or do. I hear the voices of the men, the scent of wild sex, the laughter, snickers as others pass by and, the wonderment of men who never got the opportunity to hit.
Some days, I'm good. Other days depending on the way the wind blows - I'm gloomy and depressed. Those damn fingerprints keep leaving nasty trails for me to revert back to mentally. Paw prints which should have been prince prints . . . always remain. Sucks when those thoughts present themselves. Fingerprints of hell exist, hot hot hell.
No matter how many times I shower or scrub harder, those prints - omnipresent. Remain like Cancer. I'm always hopeful that showering will erase those fingerprints, but the warm water only removes the germs, not the permanent memories.
These are the fingerprints of my past . . .
It all started when I was a mere lassie, close to six years old or so. Playing hiding-go-seek with the neighborhood boys who always seemed to be looking for jollies. Teenage babysitters getting their rocks off too. Even mature relative cousins seeing what IT was like. I suppose its easier to get it from someone who is younger because they have no idea what's happening. Taking advantage of innocense is what I call it.
Why was I the target? Where was my mother? How come she didn't protect me? How come I didn't know it wasn't okay?
Today my confidence has been raped. Today I have visions of those bastard rubbing and tugging over my surface. Today, snippets of their ruff hands play in my head over and over. The attic, the station wagon, under the preschool table, neighbor's laundry room, and the list continues . . .
Inside I am screaming, but no one hears my pain. No one really understands the trauma, the outcome, the afterlife, the risks, the neverending reputation associated with me no matter how hard I try, and most all, the paralyzed judgment regarding love. Yes, I have had some great men come into my life, but I have also come across some creeps too. Problem is - the good ones I didn't seem to recognize. Still not sure if I would be able to target them.
Countless men who have taken MORE than their fair share of my goods. Not enough fingers and toes combined could tally a number. Sad and pitiful that no numbers can be assigned to something that is supposed to be a precious production of life. Those fingertips have forever printed my life. My past haunts me everyday, no matter where I go or do. I hear the voices of the men, the scent of wild sex, the laughter, snickers as others pass by and, the wonderment of men who never got the opportunity to hit.
Some days, I'm good. Other days depending on the way the wind blows - I'm gloomy and depressed. Those damn fingerprints keep leaving nasty trails for me to revert back to mentally. Paw prints which should have been prince prints . . . always remain. Sucks when those thoughts present themselves. Fingerprints of hell exist, hot hot hell.
No matter how many times I shower or scrub harder, those prints - omnipresent. Remain like Cancer. I'm always hopeful that showering will erase those fingerprints, but the warm water only removes the germs, not the permanent memories.
These are the fingerprints of my past . . .
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