My Rapist. Who is that person? I hate the word. It's rough and sharp and all of the dark and dirty parts of me reverberate off of the edges of those letters.
My body feels like this shrine. This temple to violence. Physical and emotional. Remnants of men who released their rage, their frustration, their disappointments onto and inside of me. Shadowy rooms left empty for them - fill me up, use me up. It seemed better that way; give myself away so nothing could be taken. Like a yard sale at the end of the day - slash the prices, make an offer, "Everything must go!"
So who am I now? Do you ever really recover? I can't get those parts back. All of the pieces that were taken and given away. I can't track them down and demand they be returned.
I found new parts though. And I built new shrines. I opened myself up to miracles and healing. My body opened and changed and created a new life. This perfect, breathing truth. Proof of some divinity living inside of me. A product of love and light and hope. Scars from something real and beautiful and new. A bright burning light, bursting forth from my ashes.
