Venting A dead flower, a raped child

[in2thespiral]

My own father held me down against the cold tile of a bathroom floor and took my innocence like he was simply plucking a petal off of a flower. I was a flower he loved to make bleed. He would bend the flower into different positions until he was satisfied. The flower remained silent because flowers can't speak. All the flower could do is droop in sorrow. The flower began to wither from a fear it couldn't comprehend. He plucked each petal with a sickenly calm demeanor. Once the petals were all gone, it was nothing but a stem. Even then, he slowly peeled it apart. Over and over until it didn't have anything left of itself. He still found a way to violate the emptiness that it was. He would sneak through the dark and carry it out of it's bed of soil. The flower tucked itself in so tightly thinking he wouldn't be able to take it out from beneath the layers of dirt. But there it was, in his grasp once again. Forever stolen by the violence in each line of his palm. The flower was nourished by the agony he grew from destruction. The flower wished it was never a seed. The flower wasn't even a flower anymore. It was a dead pile of stomped on weeds.

 

[soul2realm]

My own father held me down against the cold tile of a bathroom floor and took my innocence like he was simply plucking a petal off of a flower. I was a flower he loved to make bleed. He would bend the flower into different positions until he was satisfied. The flower remained silent because flowers can't speak. All the flower could do is droop in sorrow. The flower began to wither from a fear it couldn't comprehend. He plucked each petal with a sickenly calm demeanor. Once the petals were all gone, it was nothing but a stem. Even then, he slowly peeled it apart. Over and over until it didn't have anything left of itself. He still found a way to violate the emptiness that it was. He would sneak through the dark and carry it out of it's bed of soil. The flower tucked itself in so tightly thinking he wouldn't be able to take it out from beneath the layers of dirt. But there it was, in his grasp once again. Forever stolen by the violence in each line of his palm. The flower was nourished by the agony he grew from destruction. The flower wished it was never a seed. The flower wasn't even a flower anymore. It was a dead pile of stomped on weeds.

I am aghast, extremely sorry for what happened to you. Did you report this? I mean how can...no words. Please get the authorities involved. No its not your burden. It's a complete violation. I cannot even start to comprehend the pain you have gone through. This is demonic. Please get someone involved, a friend, relative and especially i cannot emphasize enough- the authorities.
You are not a dead pile of anything, you are a living, full of light person and no one, i mean no one has the right to harm you, even the slightest.
I pray for you and sending you loads of love and blessings. And you are not alone.

 

[fadedghost]

My own father held me down against the cold tile of a bathroom floor and took my innocence like he was simply plucking a petal off of a flower. I was a flower he loved to make bleed. He would bend the flower into different positions until he was satisfied. The flower remained silent because flowers can't speak. All the flower could do is droop in sorrow. The flower began to wither from a fear it couldn't comprehend. He plucked each petal with a sickenly calm demeanor. Once the petals were all gone, it was nothing but a stem. Even then, he slowly peeled it apart. Over and over until it didn't have anything left of itself. He still found a way to violate the emptiness that it was. He would sneak through the dark and carry it out of it's bed of soil. The flower tucked itself in so tightly thinking he wouldn't be able to take it out from beneath the layers of dirt. But there it was, in his grasp once again. Forever stolen by the violence in each line of his palm. The flower was nourished by the agony he grew from destruction. The flower wished it was never a seed. The flower wasn't even a flower anymore. It was a dead pile of stomped on weeds.

file a police report, there may be other victims

 

[martyrdom]

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