Filth

It's not something one simply brings up.

Nor is it a memory one wishes to ponder on.

Even though I was so young, and it wasn't something I could control

I can't help but feel like I'm corrupt.

I feel filthy.

I feel dirty.

As if it's a filthiness which lies under my skin.

I don't tell people about it, for I fear how they'll react.

I didn't tell my best friend until 5 years she proved to be loyal

I've watched how other girls will tell every soul

Using it as a tactful way to behold anyone's sympathy.

I hold it in secrecy, hoping that one day it may be left in the past.

It's not something I wish to define myself as.

Nor is it something I wish to allow to have a strong hold over me.

It is a memory which at this point brings me to ennui.

Never will I ever feel comfortable on said subject

for I was used as no more than a sexual object

By the age of 6, in my veins flowed this filth.

Only death may rid me of itself.