Raped Queen

Published on February 2017 | Categories: Documents | Downloads: 24 | Comments: 0 | Views: 142
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Raped Queen

Looks like it’s me who’s suffering. Looks like it’s me who wounded and bleeding. But as I walk trough, as I breathe out, I can clearly see and vividly feel that I’m not the one who’s hurt. I’m not the one in suffering. It’s her: a girl, a doll, a queen. She’s staring at me with her bright colored, bluish eyes, with her trembling blushing cheeks, with her pinky pale lips, her fresh brown hair, smelling like red roses. She grabs my eyes into hers, she wants to cry again, but she has no tears. No…not anymore. She wants my eyes to cry. She watches my mouth, hardly trying to open her own. She wants to scream, but then again, she can’t anymore. No … not anymore. She wants my mouth to scream. Now she falls under her own weight. Poor doll. Grandly hurt queen. Just a mere girl! She’s shaking her hands, pointing with her agitated, white fingers, at my legs. Yes, she wants my legs to walk. She can’t walk anymore. Not since then. Not since she died inside. Not since she broke herself like a porcelain glass. Not since her mirror was smashed into tiny, little pieces that can cut. What is she going to do? She’s a girl, poorly wounded and abandoned! She’s a queen, left behind and utterly destroyed! She’s a doll of glass pressed with an iron cruelty. It’s pity that she suffers so badly! As I stand on my feet, next to her, in front of her, away, yet, close from her, I can easily see that I’m not the one who suffers gravely. She is! She’s wounded and beaten. She wears her scars like signs of stigmatism. She washed her blood, but she’s still bleeding: on the inside. Smells like ruin and misery. It’s her scent. Her forcedly-given perfume. She never wanted to end a life so beautiful. She never chose to ruin the little, innocent happiness. But now … she’s forced to accept the horror she went through, the pain that passed in every cell of her body – the pain that’s still passing through her heart and mind. She can’t escape it. She can’t run away from it. I’m not the one to help her, neither to raise her to her feet. She will stand … on her own. Once the currency of facts shall pass, she’ll find her own way to get over the horror of her life.

No more the pure doll Anymore the queen But a girl! A cold-hearted girl.

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