The Annabelle Ballet


He is twenty years my senior the first it happens.
And the second.
And the third.
And I am thirteen.
Which
fucked me up.
I think.

‘Cause after him,
I stop having sex.
Well, kind of.
Rather,
I stop existing during sex.
It's not just sex anymore.
It is something of a completely different nature.

Now, it is a dance;
a choreographed ballet of my own objectification as I am traded through twirls, man after man. Sometimes, it's slow enough that I have time to reflect.
Hold me through my adagio of a performance, as I try to distract myself from the
cabrioles
and chasse's
and sissonnes
I don't feel like doing.

Objectify me.
Look beyond the complexities of my mind or
my soul or
my what have you.
I would much rather be a tool.
As a human--
as a person,
I am much, much harder to love.

Attempt to grasp at what is left of me;
a body.

His hands cascade down my shoulders and touch the tips of my fingers.
I urge myself to walk away but my feet are stuck in pointe.
It is in this moment that I realize:
I have never enjoyed sex.
I don’t want this.
I have never wanted this.

I slap his wrists away
but when he grips my arm and pulls me back,
I swivel towards him with magnificent technique.
We tango across the dimly lit room.
He touches the outline of my silhouette.
I try not to cry.
And I don't,
but my breath is akin more to a sharp gasp than an actual inhale.

I extend my shaking arms upwards.
Fifth position.

Every night,
I relive the same dance
but am accompanied by a different partner.
With each stroke of my body,
each touch or mark or smear of makeup on my skin,
I am left feeling less and less of a person.

I do not feel as though I own my body anymore.
Someone has climbed in and inhabited it;
too many people for it to be mine.

So I do the only thing I know how to do,
I dance.
I dance my way towards the bar and down ten shots.
I take a hit from an unidentified substance a stranger in a club sashayed my way
and pique turn to a house I do not recognize.

I wake up beside someone I don't know.

Attempt to grasp at what is left of me;
air.

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This Poems Story

On sexual abuse, obviously. And a visual interpretation of it, heavily influenced by John and Holly Morris' "Corners: a Theatrical Screed".