PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I stumble home,
Walking through the February cold,
Smelling of cheap vodka and cranberry,
Yay! I'm almost home,
Almost made it to the security and comfort of my warm bed,
I prance upon the porch,
Not a care,
I go to let myself through the front door and...
I'm forced to turn around by a cold stranger's hands,
SLAM! my back against the door.
A cold hand wraps itself around my neck,
It holds me there upon the door.
Stricken with fear I make no sound,
Not a scream, not a wimper,
No one around to help.
I'm named dumb slut and told not to move,
Pinned by my neck and chest,
Forced to smell the whisky on his breath,
His cold, blood shot eyes staring hard at me,
My body shivers from cold and fear,
He moves his arm down from my chest,
Hand still clasped around my neck,
I feel an icy hand on my bare stomach,
I wince from the chill,
He then holds me harder by the neck,
Keeping me pressed up against the door,
He starts to slide his hand into my pants,
Like I am his personal whore.
I summon all my inner courage,
I want to make it out alive,
So while he was preoccupied by my molestation,
I forced into his testicles all my frustrations.
His hand slid out of my pants,
The other off my neck,
They began to tend to his injured sack,
And I turn and ran inside,
Locking the door behind.
I ran upstairs to my apartment and locked myself inside.

To this day I am shocked I am still alive.