submitted by Colleen Clark, Ashfield, MA

I was a simple child once. I lived in a house.

When I was 11 I sat on a toilet at my Grammar School. I investigated the smell of dried blood in a paper lined receptacle.

I didn’t understand as I didn’t belong, not yet. Read more »

submitted by Sahag Gureghian, Los Angeles, CA

When I was little, I wanted to be Cinderella, smiling every time my tiny fingers skimmed over the yellowed pages of my favorite book. It was torn and aging but I kept it under my pillow and felt safe knowing it was there. My mother would come into my bedroom every night and read it to me before bed. As her calming voice acted out the story I knew so well, the enchantment of overcoming struggle lingered inside my ignorant brain since I didn’t know any better.

When I got older, my mother stopped her nightly visits and started drinking. My father gambled our money away and instead, he was the one who snuck into my bedroom while my mother passed out on the couch. Every night, just as I was about to drift to sleep, he would approach and kiss me roughly on the mouth. I would try to pull away, but he’d grab my arm and kiss me harder. As I’d struggle to break free, I wondered when my fairy Godmother would come and rescue me.

“Be a good girl and give daddy what he wants,” he’d say and I remember wishing he wasn’t my daddy. Read more »

submitted by Yona Levy Grosman, Moshav Ein-Habsor, Israel

A little girl of six
Who learned to read
Only A and B
And in Arabic, perhaps, this reads differently,
A little girl only six years old
Was murdered,
Ssssss…
Murdered by her father and her mother
In the name of family honor
Whose spirit
Had already been murdered
At the hands of foreign
Rapists
A little girl of only six
Murdered,
Ssssss…
Murdered
Time
After
Time
A little girl of six.
Little girl
Of
Shhhhhsix…

Read more »

submitted by Linda Ravenswood, Los Angeles, CA

he sat there telling her some of the truth during the self congratulatory part of the constantly running, invisible documentary of his life presumably filmed by the angels and the ghost of ingmar bergman. the continuity was amazing except for those times when the machine was on the fritz. whole sections of the time he’d lived in idaho were missing, and most of his daughter’s pubescence — and there was that one section during his second marriage that had someone’s entire thumb in the lens. he absolutely never thought of those times though, so it was really a blessing in disguise. trouble was one day, one of the lost sections showed up on the front porch, when his girlfriend was home and dressed for company. she said, how the hell are you ? and showed the section around the house. the lost section said it was comfortable waiting for him in the living room, and, drinking tea out of the girlfriend’s china, told her all about the rape and the photos, about the big n slutty porn and something about tax evasion. the section was calm and pulled no punches. after a while though, he said he couldn’t wait any longer and stiffly stood and walked out of the house. when her boyfriend came home, all he said to the news of the return of the lost chapters was that if she’d really loved him, she wouldn’t have brought it up. later that night he shoved her awake in the lamplight and with it tight between his thumb and fore finger, snubbed his cigarette butt out on the pink area between her labia and the close canal. lucky for her, the constantly running, invisible documentary of her life had a finicky record button too. she would hurt for a few days, but pain never killed anyone, like he always said.

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submitted by Jenni, San Francisco, CA

A lonely little girl, terrified, hugging knees to chest in a solitary corner:
Is he gone? Is she safe?

Each day holds new dangers as she tiptoes across the tightrope of her life,
Lacking the comfort of a safety net below.
One false step and she’ll be gone.

Constant fear has stolen her voice. He knows she’ll never tell.
Who would listen to the halting, hesitant speech of damaged goods?
From the comfort of his safety net, he eyes her tightrope walk
With eager anticipation.

The days and weeks of silence become months and years.
Soon she forgets the value of her voice,
And others, weary with the work of speaking for two
Excuse her silence for shyness at best, rudeness at worst.

Her tightrope, if not comfortable, is at least familiar:
She knows each twist and knot along the way.
By day, she steps with calloused tiptoes across her tightrope;
By night, she curls into a ball and cries the dark away.

One day as she approaches the ladder to her tightrope torture,
She scorns the worn rungs, envying those who, instead of walking a tightrope of terror, fly.
How she longs for the wings to soar.
One last glance at her tightrope tormentor and her decision is firm:
She will fly.

The first flappings of her wings terrify her;
How will she survive in the changeful wind and blinding sunlight of the azure sky?
She almost leaves the dizzying heights.
Others, seeing her plight, do not mock, do not scoff, do not flutter off
But come alongside and help her on her way through the unfamiliar freedom of the air.

As she finds her wings, so too she finds her voice:
“I’d like to tell you my story.”

jsf 11-21-09

submitted by Venisia Gonzalez-Fiorino

Screaming was always around me
Tears running down my face
Trying to silence his voice, her voice with my hands
Good touch, bad touch
Too young was I really to know
All the poking hurt
My body in so much pain
“Hurt me, not my brother”
Hating bath time
Terrified of bedtime
Liquor, the smell of his breath
I tried to imagine I was dreaming
It wasn’t me but another 6yr. old girl
That’s what I’d try to think
Trying to hide from the teacher’s looks
I always wanted my Daddy to come and take me away
My mother left my brother and me here
Here in this cold place
They were strangers, cruel people
Their oldest daughter never liked it when it was my bed he came to
She made me pay but I didn’t understand why
I was a baby
My mother didn’t want to know
Did she know?
Why were we left here?
When we lived with our mother in New Jersey
All she did was yell, scream and curse
I was like my Daddy
I wasn’t a normal child in junior high
So she hated me
I didn’t care
I hated her
It was because of her
Her doing
That I was violated, beaten
She didn’t care
“I should’ve had an abortion”
“You’ll never make it in life”
This is what she’d always say to me
I wished my brother and I would’ve been with our Daddy
I wished we were with someone safe who loved us the right way
We would have been safe
She’d yell at everyone
For any reason
She’d beat on you something fierce
Hating that I only wanted my Daddy
I begged him to take us away
“Please Daddy! We don’t want to go back. Please Daddy!”
She had her ways
Cleaning had to be done her way and that was that
Laundry, garbage, ironing, hanging clothes on the hangers,
The way things were folded and put away, the vacuuming,
Making dinner, dishes….
If I didn’t do it right “her way”
I’d get hit with whatever was within her grasp
A wiffleball bat, a hot iron on my right thigh, a phone thrown in my face
“Slut, slut, slut”
That was her nickname for me (even though I was a “virgin”)
I’d never be anything, a loser
I’d never get my H.S. diploma
She kicked me out right before senior year finals
My ex-boyfriend Don’s Mom welcomed me into her home
She took me in, no questions asked
Disgusted with what my “Mother” had done to my face for the VERY LAST TIME
Yet this time, I fought back, I defended myself
Don’s Mother didn’t want all my hard work over the past 4 years to count for nothing
My Daddy sending her money to help with my expenses
Due to her and Don
I had the opportunity to take my final exams
Driving me to school every day
On graduation day
I got ready with my new “Mother”
A gift from my Daddy and her, a new outfit to look my best
Cap and gown, services ending with diplomas
Then here comes “this woman”
Saying, “I knew you could do it!”
To my curiosity, I turned and asked, “Why?”
“My baby is going to a good college because I pushed her to succeed.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
I almost vomited
I then told her that it was because of Don, his Mother,
My guidance counselor, my Daddy, and me
I succeeded because of me, for me
I never wanted to be her
A failure, a tyrant, unfaithful spouse
A person who’d feed on her young and others
An abuser
She was never worthy of the name ‘Mother’
She would never be my Mother
I would and could never be her.

submitted by Dana Leggett, Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada

i speak to you now, hear me before my head explodes…
i need you to understand this flesh
it holds many memories, many scars

babies have been housed here, like nesting birds with the sweetest song
babies have travelled down the path
that you explore with your fingers, your breath

i have allowed you into all of me
hear me now
the birds have built a temple of this space
hung beads from the ceiling, soft pink wallpaper
delicate wallpaper

understand me
birds have built a temple of this space

the windows are broken, hear me say this
there are no more birds, they flew away a long time ago
the carpets are full of sickness

this temple
no longer a temple
gleaming gold and rosy love
but the darkest shadow in the darkest forest
hiding away
hear me when i say

birds have decorated this space
in all of their innocence
they have shone all of their wisdom
burnt their initials
in the delicate wallpaper

they have built a temple of this space

Read more »

submitted by Kyla

I’m tearing apart inside and out nothing to say, drowning about

this sea of darkness, swirling around me is making me dizzy

in this misery of feelings. Hurting inside wanting to scream

no one is there to hear me, crashing down like thunder rolling

I’m lost in this maze, sadness is here, I am fading away…

is anyone there does anyone care, I’m isoloated from the world

torn apart and blue, all I need is you, your gone your not there

I’m twisted apart…Falling fading…I’m torn for eternity..

submitted by Torsa Ghosal, Kolkata, India

Bruises embossed on her face, yet,

ancient pacific eyes

propel tumbling boats

at sunset through her bosom.

A look at her and one sigh… peace.

Peace, when I see her baking chapattis

Curtained by dancing smoke, sucking black coal

On winter mornings,

Peace, when I see her battered hands

And still know my grandma nourishes hope.

Lone divide between life and death

contained in her hour glass figure,

the jingle of bangles-anklets

since Himalayas

awakened, ticks

on clock tower. Touch

of her wet, warm palms and

one long word, everlastingly- … hush.

Silence, as I climb up to Eden secretly

Cradled in lullaby of her choking throat

Silence, that’s how my mother sees

Vernal dreams beyond her painful loads

Protected in the foliage of tropical forest,

plucking petals to deck my doll’s wedding gown

I painted the earth with my toes,

I would ride on the merry-go-round,

everyday and I knew well that was bliss.

Bliss, when we tasted berries from

Cloudland vineyards that were shielded from splinter

Bliss, as I thought the creepers of childhood would

Hold me in their fragile smiling grasps forever

Eventually I was, like my grandma and mom

Sucked into the roaring fires of clichéd roles,

Of fulfilling expectations, of being the one to care,

Enduring patiently-

Night after night, bitter fights under the quilt of happiness…

Where does this end? How will we ever transcend?

Hungry touches of monstrous silence…

Until on one such troubled night

A peaceful, blissful, silent whispering moment

Informed me, as I was staring at the blades of the fan,

Some girls of my home land have gathered

Shards of lives like ours and practiced to walk on them,

And by now must have reached beyond

Circular chapattis and songs of the flawed heaven…

submitted by Chastity, Buffalo, NY

the rain

you are the madness that splits me in half

wrapped in your arms to burn eternal

a monster you’ve become

infected in the visions of me poisoned

never again to fly… I shall lay dead

inside myself, thrashing in my death throws

the rails against your ear as I die

rain falling, flowing down this window

like your sweat against my skin

I rose that day some living dead

blank stares melted into the rain

your shovel leaning against the house

moving forward as if it ever happened

the smell of rain is deadly

the sound beneath the wheels

the body twitches inside me

nerves awakened

it knows, and yet refuses to tell me

the reason she lies dead

it was something that you said

the voice remains mute in memory

I can feel your breath against my ear

but no sound…no sound

it is too awful to hear.

Read more »