This body is the horror,
A waking , walking nightmare;
And my skin ,
An untold tale of pain.
I have sewn my lips,
With needle, thread, and shame.
I yell at every touch
And crawl to a dark corner ,
Where you unzipped my dress.
Dirty hands scrolling down ,
Haunting me eternally.
I was eight.
“A stranger!”, I shut my eyes
But that nefarious shadow
Draws nearer as family
Kneading my breast,
“Your daughter is really smart”, he said.
Openings-Your lips, your skins ,
Your vagina are not yours.
Contain! Hold in ! Endure!
A boy kissed my hand in school, I shrieked in disgust
“You are evil. He is like your brother ” she said
I picked up the needle and the thread, again.
A tattered doll ;
Tossed , torn , stitched , torn again,
Infested by touch , cauterised,
Burnt , bruised , plastered to look like a dream.
This body is a waking , walking nightmare, with fetor of hell.
Whom do I exorcise , when I am the Annabelle?