Content warning: This piece contains mention of sexual and physical assault.
His forceful, disgusting acts left her scarred. She felt trapped with no way out. She had laid lifeless in that hospital bed for days, The doctors thought she would never recover. But no coma could cease her anger, There was no prison, not even her own body. Nothing that could silence her or keep her down— She would be free of his deathly grasp. In the deep hours of the night, she writes by A fluorescent light that burns her eyes. She is free from distraction and can focus, Energy bursting from her fingers like fire. There is no rhyme or rhythm to the way she writes— Her fingers tapping against the keys like fairies Taking their first steps before the flight of spring, Nimble and quick churning out the words buttery smooth. Fiction envelops her being as she plunges into words— Sentences and paragraphs fill her up to the brim. She dances amongst a fantasy of freedom, One where she can escape the perils of our world. Sometimes there is a graceful melodic beauty in her movements. Other times it is an angry and hateful pressing of the keys— Her emotions spilling into hands that shake profusely. This is her only outlet of expression, the only way to fight back. She will never feel a child fill her womb like others, Never feel the blessing, that’s what her parents had said. Her keys shudder against the hands that tap them; Her tears spilling onto their letters is an annoyance. To tell her story is to bare her withered soul completely. It is a struggle for both her and the worn keys to endure. Her anger and hatred were taken out upon them— For the man that destroyed her, taking away her greatest wish.