Broken

Fallen through the cracks of perception,
not broken enough.  
 
Could've been worse
means the wounds must not run deep.
Let the tape and glue
hold her together.
No need for comfort,  
pay no heed to her tears.
It's equal to whining
since her nightmare is more silent.
 
Her soul did the screaming.
 
Forget her terror
shut up in a room  
with him,
older and stronger,
buzzed on beer and weed.
He talked about life  
and stroked her hair
while she waited for him to finish.
Told her how good she felt
how warm she was,  
as he bent her and stretched her
and felt her from the inside.
 
She hates the part of herself
that liked it.
 
Nevermind the panic  
dialing any number that came to mind
on the unpaid prepay phone.
No reaching out.
No escape.
He snored behind her,
exhausted from the intoxication  
of the booze and her soft skin.
 
Nothing to do but sleep
and cry
and wait for morning.
 
Numbness washed over  
as he used her one more time,
whispering a warning not to say a word
before he let her go.
Walking with shame
and guilt
and questions.
Trying to put the pieces together.  
 
It may have been easier  
if her clothes were torn,
her flesh bruised.
The scars left behind more jagged,
less precise.
The blame at least
would be clear
if it were violent.
 
Why would anyone listen
or believe,
when she was so naive...  
 
Bottle it up, bury it.  
Festering, infected,
spreading poison.
She keeps it quiet,
hidden.
No one would see
to judge.  
No pity needed,
acceptance never granted,
it could have been worse.
 
So pass her by,
as she smiles,
unable to be unburdened.  
She isn't broken enough.