I Was Four the First Time I Died

Fuck you conformity.
Tromping steadfast, reeling her in.
That November night
he tore through worse
than any storm she's endured.
Confined in her disbelief,
forty pounds soared delicately,
aimed directly through the wall
she thought was her sentry.
Bulls-eye.

Fuck you conformity.
Her innocence shattered
with each harsh blow.
Blood ran across the carpet
as his monstrous hands
undid the snaps of chastity.
Relentless until at last
she was limp and lifeless
leaving her trusted elder
an assassin.

Fuck you conformity.
I had no bottle to drown her screams.
My every precaution a waste,
horror fused me to her corpse.
Losing her angelic substance
mangled my faith
worse than her scabbing thighs.
The ultimate alteration.

Fuck you conscience.
Now I'm a passive aggressive mess.
Fresh out of remorse,
he raped my psyche
and eradicated my purpose.
I'll gladly crumple on the floor,
cursing whispers at his every step.
No need to resurrect
this toxic curse
that's stifled me for fifteen years.
Demons are relentless;
I'm torn back.

I was four the first time I died.
I wish he could have known
that collapse of faith.
Wavering on the ledge, built from tears
and cemented by lies.
Rather than break free I broke down.
More than a stolen identity,
he tromped what I would be.

Twin blade tracks,
Marks of an unfit end.