Originally this blog was going to be a place for discussions on sex and sexuality. But I’ve decided to not narrow this down so much. Instead, I’m just commandeering this as a soundboard for my thoughts and poetry.
She watches men with hungry eyes, searching, lost in her own musings. She lures without meaning to, a beckoning lighthouse on an uncertain shore. Honeywheat tresses, cat eyes, lush curves and a hopeful smile, she has the flash of sass and well-intentioned naiveté that most men find irresistible. Tara doesn’t understand the power she has over men, but then again, most girls don’t until they’ve been used enough to realize their spark has died.
Tera has been raped. Three times, she’s been taken, forced, beaten, bruised and broken. Each time she barely fought back, her voice caught in her throat like fish-hook, sharp and bleeding. Each time she curled inside, punished herself for being so vulnerable.
I look at her and I see myself. I see that those same searching eyes, that same pretty face and downcast smile that greeted me every morning that I returned home with smeared mascara, torn fishnets and an echo inside that never resolved into words. I can’t protect her. I wish I could wrap my arms around her, stand watch, turn back the tide of man that crashes against her, again and again, filling her with salt and sand and taking away the precious cargo of her seashell songs. I wish I could wrap her in warm wax, a shell that yields, a red glow to diffuse the shrill scream of lonely that sounds like broken glass on cold asphalt.
I can do none of this, just as no one could do this for me.