A Letter To My Rapist

To my rapist,

Hello there!

You are wondering;

How am I so polite?

Even I am amazed quite.

It was all your daughter, a true sprite.

The day I saw her,

on the dusty old chair,

with no one to care,

and a few lustful stare.

Yes, you touched my body,

marked me with the burns of your tongue,

your mind was so bawdy,

you laughed when the tears sprung.

The half burnt cigarette scorch,

on the dimples on my back,

And your brutal knife's mark,

on the sides of my heart.

The dusty rough hands,

rummaging my hips to my soul;

But I was a dead corpse,

who had lost all control.

The bed as my crucifixion,

the stole as the nails,

the hands the hammer of iniquity,

with memories as long lost tales,

I lay.

I heard questions of the unknown alleys,

and the silence of the known.

got support from lighted rallies,

and the blames from the crone.

Here I was,

standing near a cramped desk,

with a lot of hope,

to destroy someone's hope.

with a lot in hand to cope.

I saw a little girl,

I saw the angel in her smile,

and the devil in her eyes,

just like me, a bibliophile.

In her eyes, I saw myself,

not as broken beaten or raped,

but as a bird, soaring high.

In her eyes, my broken soul escaped.

She had dreams like mine,

waiting to get shattered...

Just for my urge,

because I was battered...

Where will she fly?

in this atrocious world,

under the shadows of rough hand,

and humans who submerge in quick sand.

Will her wings get cut off,

even before her first flight?

That night was painful,

more than those burns,

more than those words,

more than those piercing yearns...

The clock strikes midnight,

the world slowly fading away...

I opened my eyes,

my body swayed in gay.

God had gifted me all at once.

The medicine to my bruise,

the reason for my blood ooze.

You were the cause of my bane,

she my joie de vivre.

How'll the rainbow float,

without a little rain?

I took her in with me,

the questions came like blazing arrows...

But I had only one thing to plea,

to see her as a girl,

and not the reason for my sorrows.

She has no memories of you;

I never try to rub off that hue.

She's nothing like you...

she loathes you for being you.

Now twenty years later;

when I look into her eyes,

I see all the seven hue,

I am even thankful to you,

for a part of you took away my blues.

-Not your victim anymore.