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#csa poetry
unspokenwordsbyhb · 1 year
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deer333teeth · 2 years
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University Writer’s Mag: fall 2022 semester // theme : eroticism
Sex. The concept has been buried deep in the back of my mind since before I learned to remember. Submerged under layer after layer of dirt, roots and centipedes’ legs tying it tighter and tighter down, binding and burning the word into my brain stem. Then years had passed and the roots gave way. The insects scattered and the earth loosened around their ghosts. The floodgates opened, silt spilled in and washed over the decade-old open wound.
To me, eroticism was a death sentence. The musk that lifts off Their skin when they look at me. The heat on Their breath as their thoughts ignite in their throat. The kind of touch that smolders on your skin for the rest of your life; the kind of touch that makes you terrified of holding someone’s hands. The kind of touch that makes your best friend’s fingers running through your hair in sixth grade send shockwaves down your spine. The gloss that spreads over Their eyes, which already sting to look into. I don’t want to know when they’re looking. I don’t want to know what they see.
To me, touch is the fangs of a mad dog. No matter how many times I squint my eyes and hold out my hand, no matter how many times that hand is met with a wet nose instead of blood drenched teeth, some part of me will always fear dogs.
Now it is my own fangs, drenched in my own blood, biting at the hand that feeds. Sex was once the boot pulled back and aimed sharply at my snout. Now it is my own teeth, digging digging digging deeper under my skin. Clawing at the dirt still caked around the wound. And my wrists are still streaked red in patches, echoing the shapes of Its edges. The kind of sting that mirrors the fingernails I dug into my palms to tether the self to the body. And my sides are still painted with bruises. The kind of ache that lingers where the original sin was cast. And there is a hole still left gaping in my stomach. The kind of empty that makes you grieve a love you’ve never felt. No touch can reach deep enough.
There are no teeth, no claws, that could rip the final roots from my head. There is no flame that does not burn, no heat that could not scorch something so soft as human skin. There are no hands that could stir the final specks of soil from their place behind my eyes. No touch can reach deeper than love.
R. A.
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I suppose I am angry
With a fever I can't accept
From all those nights
Staying up late with a dad who couldn't accept
Who I was or what I wanted
Staying up till I see no lights
And I suppose I sleep angry now
When I wake, I see a room that isn't my own
As I'm still as angelic as the first
And it's already too late
To eat breakfast or ever change it
But I'm still as angelic as you want
Cause angels without their wings are pretty to you
And I suppose it hurts to wake
Does the red contrast well?
Being surrounded by archangels
Of perfection I won't be ever
Sweet Gabriel and Michael
While I am just here, burned away
Cause I dare speak of being clipped
And I suppose the crimson is pretty
At that Christmas morning,
I realized a truth maybe only to me
That God may love me but will never save me
In this world that I can't be in
I'm God's perfect child
But not enough to be saved
When I feel the wrapping of paper
I want to cry, scream, and screech
You put a doll in there, didn't you?
Or was it my wings?
And I feel your skin burn under me
But you said you loved me
So why does it hurt me too?
And it reminds me of those Christmas mornings
Around archangels and God
Praying I'd be like you
But I fell, so hard, so hard
And you were too selfish to save me
That's what my name means though
And you knew it all along
I was inspired by a fallen one
And I fell too cause you couldn't grow
Isn't that right?
That you can clean your mother's blood but can't escape your father's sins?
Sitting on the cold floor, I die
And die and die and die
But it's peaceful
Discorporated and invisible
Until I'm forced back near you
Then I have to be what you pray
And I wonder if God sees us
I remember the books
Dolls
Colored pencils
Candy
And even an orange in a stocking
Who knew this was to shape me
So, I stand near and grasp you
I cannot flee from my father
And covered in my mom's blood
So, just stop pretending you're not evil or corrupt
Cause I'm already too tainted
And I see you so angelically
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numbingdaniel · 2 years
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traumatized-centaur · 2 years
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i have that telltale tummy ache,
the one that tells me i did it again.
i looked at something, read something,
remembered something..
my therapist tells me
i trigger myself on purpose.
that im more comfortable, when im
uncomfortable.
but i dont do this on purpose.
i dont have a choice.
Once i get that inch, that feeling,
The wanting. I want to feel. I want to hurt.
i guess this is my way of self harm.
this blog, these tags,
forcing my inner child to relive it.
over and over.
i cant stop.
even if i could,
would i?
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thedearidiot · 10 days
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- Hieu Minh Nguyen, Teacher's Pet.
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medicineteeth · 6 months
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I know you didn’t mean to not notice the abuse.
You say it almost every time we talk,
“If only you had told me.”
That would’ve helped,
But a little girl isn’t supposed to be so good at hiding her wounds.
If only you had noticed.
I know you didn’t mean to,
But why is it my fault
For “hiding things so well.”
Dear god,
I didn’t even know what I was doing.
I don’t want to be angry,
I know you didn’t mean to,
But mom,
It is not my fault
For being a scared little girl,
With no one she can trust.
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muhgie · 1 year
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— Warsan Shire, crude conversations with boys who fake laughter often
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milkyspine · 4 months
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— gynecologist, room 202
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unspokenwordsbyhb · 1 year
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paulsmelody · 2 years
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I think what has always kept me staunchly on the side of “there is nothing supernatural in Petscop” is that anything that is actually supernatural is ultimately just a tool used to discuss abuse. Which is not to say that those supernatural elements cannot coexist as allegory and reality, but they don’t. There aren’t ghosts in Petscop. It’s not haunted. Or, well, it is haunted, but by the past. By its creator. By its players. By itself. Petscop is lines of code and a multiplayer system weaponized against defenseless children. The aspects of it that are hard to reconcile with reality are the metaphors for abuse—how do you use the reflection from a vase to traumatize a child? How does playing a melody on a piano fundamentally rewire somebody’s personality and psychology? These are the most fantastical aspects of Petscop, the moments where reality has to allow space to tell this story in whatever way this format can portray it. Were the children Marvin kidnapped playing Petscop at the school? Well, probably not. But that is the only lens we have into this world.
We first see Care NLM characteristically crying into her hands, but otherwise fine, and then Paul plucks the petals from a flower and suddenly Care NLM is blurry, scratched out, red. As though we’re seeing her through the reflection of the vase. The way Marvin sees her? Maybe. Paul is forced to retrace Marvin’s steps, after all. But, more importantly, we see Care the way Marvin left her. The way Care sees herself. The mirror in the bathroom is a nauseating green. Oftentimes children who have been sexually abused—as the “deflowering” scene and other moments in the series subtextually imply is happening—feel as though they’ve been dirtied, as though they’re “damaged goods.” The first thing we learn about Care NLM is that she believes, intrinsically and wholeheartedly, that “nobody will love her, not ever again.” Of course, being kidnapped and held hostage for six months, in horrific conditions, inside of an abandoned building, while your own father attempts to turn you into the memory of a girl who died long before you were ever born is, without a doubt, wildly traumatizing. But would it leave her believing that nobody would love her ever again? Those words specifically? We read them during the same section where Rainer talks about Marvin thinking about Care while he’s in the bath. The framing of this series has always been extremely intentional. And, when you’re clued into what you’re meant to be seeing, it is all extremely unsubtle.
The most supernatural event to take place in Petscop is the disappearance of Lina and the windmill. But even that feels like a fantastical allegory for the death of a young girl that Marvin blames himself for, and probably with good reason. What did you do?, Rainer asks, and it’s a good question. It’s worth noting that Marvin marries Lina’s sister. Out of guilt? Desperation? They were children when it all happened, but Marvin develops an obsession with Lina that lasts a lifetime, and that must have had a psychosexual angle to it—he married her sister, after all. For Marvin to believe that Lina was reborn in Care’s body. . . No child is safe within Marvin’s grasp. But Care was always particularly in danger.
It’s also worth noting that severe childhood sexual abuse is one of the most common reasons why a person might repress memories of their entire childhood, the way Paul seems to have so clearly done. Petscop isn’t a story about multiple timelines converging. The things that happen are all very linear. Hard to put together, especially since we don’t have all the answers and have to make quite a fair amount of educated conjecture, but still very linear. Rainer—with his survivor’s guilt, with his being too old to be in danger but too young to stop it all from happening—took the code for the video game he was making for his brother, and turned it into revenge against an abuser. It backfired, and Marvin began to use the game as another tool for abuse. By then, Rainer had killed himself, yet another plot in a graveyard.
When Paul tells Marvin his room, he starts spelling “da—” before being stopped. Nothing on screen moves for a painful several minutes. We don’t know what happened in that room. All we know is Marvin hurt Paul. And, looking at the previous ways in which Marvin hurt Care—hurt Paul—the silence and lack of movement in that scene, our inability to know what is happening in real life. . . It’s the most terrifying moment of the show. I’ve lost the thread a bit, but my point: Petscop is more based in reality than it originally seems, but it is first and foremost loyal to its medium, and it uses that medium to tell a story that is, at its thematic core, focused on the intersection between child sexual abuse and transness. When those two things click for you, the conclusion is inescapable. As it was for Paul.
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flowersbark · 3 months
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my body
my autonomy
my philosophy
my psychology
will always just be
what you made of me
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missmisdemeanor · 8 months
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Haircut - Dean and John Winchester
warning: implied csa
a standalone poem loosely connected to part three of There Is No Point In Staying Anywhere
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deer333teeth · 1 month
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He asks me what love is.
I tell him it is something soft, and warm, and bright. I think of the stars that burst behind my eyelids when I take a hit, or drag a blade between gnarled skin, or when he runs his fingertips across my back.
I ask him what love is.
He says he doesn’t know.
I wonder how it can be that he is the one with no answer, yet he is the only one who says it.
I ask him if it’s sex.
He says no. Far from it.
I agree.
He says sex is…just a way to be close to someone. To touch them.
I stay silent.
He does not ask me what sex is.
I think, sex is just power. It is anger. It is a tool to beat those things into someone. Into me. It is a reliving of the same death again and again and again. To me sex has never been anything but a reminder. A reminder of what I’ve always been and always will be. It doesn’t feel good. It shoves me backwards into muffled memories and open wounds. It doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t feel fair. But it does feel right. It feels like I am doing what I’m supposed to do. Sex returns me to the truth. I deceive everyone around me. I have built a person around this thing. I have hidden this reproachful creature and lied to bury it. Sex unearths it. It forces me to be seen as I am. It reminds me how to turn off. How to float away. How to go limp and how to cede. How to die.
I think he knows.
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thedearidiot · 7 days
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- Hieu Minh Nguyen, Again, Let Me Explain Again.
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