It has been thirteen years now,
and I still remember like it was
yesterday. Like spilt ink on a
white dress, these things stain.
Darkness encased, suffocating almost.
Woke up sweating, breathing hard.
Small feet padding lightly across
carpeted floor, clutching onto a
small elephant teddy as I approached
my mothers door.
Pulling down the handle, I slowly
walked in. Standing still for a moment
to determin if she was sleeping.
"Mommy," I whispered through thick
black vision, yet it was not she who
answered: "You're mother is asleep,
get in this side instead."
With the innocence of a five year old,
I climbed into the bed, and found out
sleeping wasn't on his mind, but something
more disgusting instead.
Tight grip, cold clammy hands,
my small body stood no chance
to struggle or fight against his
demands.
He was a grown man,
I was just a child.
Too much noise and my mother began to wake,
released quickly, smacked my head, but made my
escape.
It has been thirteen years,
and the nightmares are hard to restrain.
Like spilt ink on a white dress,
these things stain.
It's hard to wipe the tears off,
when they fall with such grace and
it's even harder to wake up
with a smile on my face.
Haunted though I am, I refuse
to live with such pain, but I am
telling you this, these things stain.
Laura-Jayne.
Silver trophy winner
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
Shari
but either way, thanks for the comment 
