kinglypoetcorpse

[kinglypoetcorpse]

[kinglypoetcorpse]

Don’t you love you can tell where I started locking in (level: impossible)

[kinglypoetcorpse]

The first time I am raped, I don’t know if my mother will believe me. But she thought the grocery store cashier was creepy enough, so she took me to the Caveat. We’re lucky it’s in our state. My grandmother wasn’t.

It’s underground and everything feels like a warning. Its dark, the dirt celiling low. The walls have a stench of alcohol and lead and cigarette smoke; the smell clings to everything. There are no walls, just curtains hung up by thumbtacks. I think one is a neighbor’s blanket. It’s none of the white walls and white lights and white floors like I remember. The word “hospital” sounds as distant as “God.”

One girl that can’t have been much older than me is downing back shot after shot. A mere toddler is suffering blow after blow by a wooden stick. Another is having a panic attack in the far right corner, and the “doctor” can’t be saying anything comforting.

My mother points to the wall to our left. “Available Methods for a Miscarriage” is written in the dirt. No ink, no nothing. The list continues: Drinking, smoking, emotionally induced stress, physically induced stress, etc, etc, etc.

“Let’s try a bit of everything,” Mother says. “Why take any risks?”

The second time I am raped, my mother does not believe me. She loves my brother too much.

I decide there is nothing to do but give myself a miscarriage. The Caveat was found by the government and burned to the ground, or rather, into the underground. I heard they plowed down everything for miles around and gave the estate to some trillionare that got half a dozen bills passed.

My father owns alcohol. Lots of it. I sneak into the basement as he takes a nap. There is whiskey and vodka and wine and beer and rum. I choose the vodka.

It burns. But fire set to my throat is nothing new when the voice of a girl is banned. Alcohol is a lot like the governement, I think. It drowns your tongue and burns it and it tastes like hell. When you get used to it, you don’t realize it’s killing you.

When my mother finds me, she does not mourn. She will not cry. If a man of the household sees, they will execute her for supporting a Liberal. She is afraid, but she is not a coward. She fears the uncles and the cousins and the fathers-in-law and the brothers and the sons, but in the outskirts of America she will bury my body with blue-and-purple hyacinths. She will be sorry, not for not believing me, but for bringing me in this wretched world. Not like it was her choice.

I will not have a gravestone. My mother might take her sercet pen and secret Ace-of-Spades card, and she may write my name and cause of death. The days I was born and dead won’t mean anything. She will write “alcohol poisoning,” but the American government killed me long before the bottle touched my mouth.

[kinglypoetcorpse]

Would u read my fic