Red Hands

Your red hands wounded me.

I can see the scars, still.

They're here in my eyes from

The tears I did cry and

Pain that filled me with

The dread of my existence.

Like an abstract painting,

Crimson stained ivory

Limbs did lie dead

After your skin touched mine.

Claw marks slash down sides

And grip my regret, because

Why did I ever have to say

'Hello'?

The violation of your transgression

Dug deeper into my flesh than

Anything you can do physically.

The sickness I still feel

Rises higher in my throat

Every single time I

Picture your face.

It rises and rises,

Staining my tongue with

The rust of that night and

Memories I've tried to forget,

But, body won't let

And, even if I met you again

I'm not sure what I would do -

But, I know my strength now.

You taught me endurance.

And, although my skin, mind and soul

May be stained -

So, too, are your hands.

Red hands, red hands,

Red stands for your crime

You made unto me and,

In this life and the next,

Red will prove

The man you are.

The woman I am;

For, red hands I now know I can withstand.

A note from the author -

This poem is one in a thousand (in the sense it has been written a thours and times over) and is intended as a spoken word piece as the emotion of performance will always be incomparable in my opinion. Again and again, I’ve attempted to formulate poignant words, and, in all honesty, I’m not sure I’ve managed to do so here. But, I’m beginning to realise that I have a voice. I may not have used it in the past but for myself, and all other survivors of sexual assault out there, I want to now.

My experiences do not define me but they have shaped who I am today. Red Hands is my testement to my strength, two years on,