Letter From A Burnt Out Soul, To My Abusers

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I feel numb inside…empty & lost.
I find myself trying to rekindle my soul, while keeping my eyes open for the lost pieces of myself; they were sold, but at what cost?
The fire in my soul must have died, gone out; I must have poured myself somewhere.
Why did I burn out? When did I decide I had enough of me to spare?

Now I find myself burnt to a crisp, with only one enraged plea.
Come & Get Me!
Others have decided there’s enough of me to take & pawn, even if it’s only a ghost of what I used to be, a whisper of what I should have been…
What trickery is this, of what sin?

So are you going to take? Or are you going to choose?
According to others I am only to be used,
Leaving stains on the shell of my soul; a deep bruise.
I keep coming back for more, hoping maybe this will be the time I have nothing left to lose…

They say you can’t rape the willing, but maybe you can.
I should have faced it dead on; I shouldn’t have ran.
I knew this would happen as soon as I ran without hope: my world falling down around me like a house of cards.
The crowds would come at me, snatching & smashing my last fragile shards.

The house I once dreamed to live in,
Now only causes me pain, what would it have been like? I can only imagine.
The bright mornings & blue summer skies
No misleading neighbors or happy lies.

So come. Come for my foreclosure.
Maybe it will end well for you my dear, perhaps a cure?
Maybe there is something you can do,
About that twisted side of you.

So please, don’t bother hiding your disguise,
While grinning with satisfaction, saying your goodbyes.
I’ve had enough of you, & your loud arrogant talk; let’s see if you can say one genuine thing in my eulogy.
Everyone waits anxiously; while you dole out pieces of me.

The pieces go only to the ones who bid the highest.
It’s funny, turns out I’m more valuable in death than I guessed.
Even while my funeral continues, they tear my reputation to shreds.
No thought of their so called “human decency or sympathy” running through their heads.

If I could, I would testify against everyone & the hands who plotted my death, I would be brave.
But even if I tried, I cannot testify from my grave.
As my body gets lighter, & their fake prayers finally cease,
They leave only my bones & never my soul, in peace…

This poem is about: 
Me

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