She was only 10 years old, a baby still. But that only made them more eager to have her. To steal her innocence and rob her of her childhood. To make sure she grew up in fear. Afraid to be touched, afraid to love. The way those men pulled her, hit her, beat and raped her, only made her feel as worthless as they told her that she was. The flash from the cameras, the beep from the recorder, who sat there and witnessed every thing being done to her. She lays in bed sometimes, afraid to fall asleep and drift into one of her frequent nightmares. She was a baby, a 10-year-old baby. What those men did and made her do, still haunt her. They still haunt me. I am that little girl. At least I used to be. I grew up how they wanted me to, afraid and lonely. Everyday I lose another piece of my life, wasted on remembering the feel of those men against my skin, and once those memories are burned into your mind and carved into your skin and put on repeat every time you close your eyes, you begin to accept the fact that you are finally broken beyond repair.
A Baby Still,
March 18, 2012