Sep
21
Sinful Touches, My First Creative Writing Piece
I was going through my creative writing earlier trying to pick out pieces to read at the upcoming Healing Through Creativity art festival and found the first piece of writing that I ever wrote.
This piece used to be straight, line-break poetry but has since been cleaned up a little bit grammar-wise and turned into a prose piece simply because my prose tends to read a lot easier than my poetry because I tend to be a little too liberal when it comes to line breaks. It is entitled Sinful Touches and was written seven years ago–A year before I told anyone about any of my abuse.
I think that this served as a part of my breaking point up to breaking the silence around my abuse. I was remembering a lot of what I had suppressed and putting what I remembered vividly on paper before I actually spoke the words out loud. This piece of writing is what started it all; I can still remember sitting in class in 8th grade English class during a specific time the teacher had set aside for “journaling.”
I am glad that I grew up in a small town where I could run into that teacher a few times at places like the mall and thank her for giving me the chance to recognize writing and its healing effects.
Sinful Touches
2001
I’ve fallen. I’m crawling.
Crawling naked on this floor mostly of dirt. The “lived in” essence taken over by filth and the laziness of a woman who never could take care of herself. My clothes, along with any dignity I once possessed at the age I didn’t know what dignity was is strewn carelessly on the floor beside where my body lays lifeless.
Are you happy now? This is the power you longed for; with a slobbering tongue of a St. Bernard–Everything you touch becoming sticky, used, in need of a shower. Are you proud of yourself? Did you have your fill and feel stuffed of power that may burst from your seams if you exhaled too strongly?
I’m sorry I began to fade; go off to the distant world where you weren’t touching me and I didn’t have to cry myself to sleep wondering if this is what love is and if so, why it hurt so much. But I remained the good girl–Don’t say a word–and I never have. But my knees are bloodied from being pulled, my arms are sore and my feet are as black as coal. I wish I could have been running outside, barefoot, to have an explanation for my appearance but instead I remained a good girl and did not speak up for your actions or for my submission.
I am no longer ready for your blows; for your sinful touches that I cannot explain. I need to disappear, off to the distant world where you do not exist and I do not wake up in the morning confused and dirty. Off to the world where there are butterflies and green grass and daisies that are just right for picking. I think of flowers and of nature when you are pouring yourself on me and I simply cannot be there when your eyes are wide and staring down into mine. I cannot be there to speak up for your actions and I cannot be there when you leave.
out of such tradgedy you have written such beauty… keep writing girl… you have a gift…
*pssst* I hate that I can’t edit the fact that an extra “d” got into tragedy…
Hi Holly,
Amazing blogger and your reaching out to help others affected by sexual violence. I admire your courage to share this piece. All the best with the new site!