PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

     A shaft of sunlight sparkles through the flexi-glass window in my tree house.  The birds are chirping; you can hear the wind rustling the leaves and feel the tree house swaying.  The hot July air is stifling, so stuffy I can hardly breathe.  Smoke clouds the air, curling into unknown mystic Asian designs.

     A spark of panic catches in my gut.  The look in His eyes.  They are flashing: a sharp and angry deep green with flecks of yellow and brown.  He is glaring menacingly down at me.  There’s something caught in my throat.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  I can’t scream.  I can’t move.  Jerked against Him by the overwhelming force of a strong yank, I flinch back; He’s leaning in for a kiss.  His hand whips down and glances off my cheekbone.  My face throbs and my ears are ringing.  A look of betrayal fills my eyes and a slick, wet tear slides down my face.  I reach up to place a cool, shaking hand on my cheek, but He catches it in His iron grip and forces it back down to my side.  

     He pushes me down.  The carpeting chafes against my skin.  He leers down at me; this cannot be good.  Suddenly I’m all too aware of the vulnerable position I’m in.  I’m on my back, with my arms pinned to my sides.  My elbows burn from scraping against the carpet.  My legs are sprawled out from when I fell.  My long hair is unconcerned with what’s going on.  It splashes out behind me, gracefully fanning about my head.  My whole body is tingling.  

     My breath is coming quicker now, in short, panicked gulps.  The white washed walls mock me with their calmness.  I can feel the racing of my thumping heart.  Get away!  Just get away from Him!  Now!  Quick! But no, I’m frozen.  A block of ice slides down into my stomach, chilling my whole body.  A gust of wind shakes the tree house; trying to save me, shake me into movement.  He kneels along the side of my body.  His iron hands begin to explore. No. No!  They shouldn’t be there!  One of His cold fingers hooks the edge of my pants.  I feel the brush of His skin on mine.  He’s feeling around down there.  He doesn’t belong there.  The Hand has grown bored and moves up my body.  His calluses scrap along the soft skin of my belly.  He’s up further now.  He doesn’t belong there either.  He is rough with His hands and fingers, not caring where they end up.  Pinching, rubbing, it’s all the same to Him.  So quickly it seems to be slight of hand, my shirt is off.  I shiver despite the ninety-degree weather.

     A bird chirps outside, accompanied by the urgent chattering of a squirrel.  They are telling me to make some noise.  A white SUV passes by the window.  Scream!  Make them know you’re here!  Do something!  This inescapable hole of a tree house seems to be getting smaller by the minute.  The roof clatters, laughing at me.  Each little ball of fuzz on the carpet runs for freedom.  They can escape out the trapdoor, but not I.  I’m stuck here with Him.  I want to get away, feel the wind on my face, smell the scent of clean, fresh earth, and taste the warm sunshine as it melts in my mouth.  I want to see the green glow of the trees and hear the babbling brook that flows among them.

     Reality sets back in.  He’s done with His hands.  Leaning in, He breathes a hot puff of air on my neck.  I taste bile rising up in my throat.  His wet tongue and lips glide over my skin.  He kisses me, not a sweet, passion-filled kiss, but a deep, hard kiss.  I can feel my lips bruising with His perverted game.  I feel His slimy saliva on me; I taste it.  To throw up now would be the best thing in the world, but I can’t.  I feel as though the scum from every snot-nosed kid, from every swamp, from every slug has just covered my body from head to toe.  The need to bathe almost overwhelms the need to vomit.  

     He sits back, pleased with Himself.  I feel the cold sweat all over my body.  He can smell my fear.  That acrid stench of complete and utter panic.  It hangs in the air.  He picks up a stick of incense.  It’s a deep pink.  The dust is flaking off the sides, covering the floor in a fine carpeting.  The aroma of roses wafts through the air, but there’s something else there too.  I can’t quite identify it.  It’s sickly sweet, barely traceable, but there.  He grins wickedly.  

     I seem to grow weak, almost faint.  He pulls me effortlessly into His lap.  He is aroused.  I feel a hardness along the side of my face.  I wince; the bile is threatening to escape again.  I try to sit up, but those iron hands press me down.   I cannot overpower Him.  I should be able to, but the smell is so calming.  Who really cares anyways?  Things begin to distort themselves.  My vision blurs and everything fades to black.

     A shaft of sunlight sparkles through the flexi-glass window in my tree house.  The birds are chirping; you can hear the wind rustling the leaves and feel the tree house swaying.  The hot July air is stifling, so stuffy I can hardly breathe.  Smoke clouds the air, curling into unknown mystic Asian designs.