Living Death, Lying Death.

If the rain could wash the silvery orbs called tears from my face,

What else could it wash away?

Could it clean the blood on the NJ sidewalk,

After they killed my love?

Could it keep me safe from the men,

In bright white coats, with fake smiles plastered to their spray-tanned faces.

Could the rain bash their pretty white teeth out?

Could my troubles and bloody wrists be gone, be gone.

Could the needless abuse and painful molestation,

Be made soft and loving...

By the silken caress of downpour.

Would he come back from the dead and kiss me?

Would the demon be gone from my life?

The demon, my father, melted away by the acidic rain.

Acidic, like his lies against my skin.

Lying on a bed that's certainly not mine,

I attempt not to cry,

I hear the faint pitter, patter...

As this new sensation racks the roof...

I pull on my partially torn clothing and walk into the chilling outdoors,

Out of the doors that have held me captive,

For too many, for far too many years,

I let the rain wash away the instinctive bile and sticky substance from pale shoulders,

And the always fresh layer of tears,

I let the rain wash away my fears.

Then I hear, the voice, the snake like voice that makes my insides curl and my spine tremble:

"Get back inside you filfthy whore, I want another round."

And I go, unwilling, unable, to escape my fate:

Living death for the next five years.