Can you see them?
I can.
The rough fingernails and coarse skin of those masculine hands
The bulging veins giving away the intent of his plans
Do you feel them?
I do.
As the hands grip around my baby-skin turning me blue
The mark of his hand bruised around my throat like a tattoo
Do you hear it?
It's almost silent.
He will grip a little tighter if the sick gurgle escaped
He likes to play the victim so he cannot be caught committing a rape
Can you taste it?
The sick.
As you swallow it back it gets caught in your throat
Because the grip is tight and the acid is thick
Can you smell it?
I smell a rat.
My testimony sitting on a file in the judges lap
Snitching on the disease that's spreading
I am proud to be a rat-trap.
BINABASA MO ANG
Do I qualify as crazy?
PoetryA collection of poems surrounding child abuse; how the traumas can linger, the experience of the traumas itself in multiple perspectives, the psychological ramifications and more. I hope through poetry I can help raise further awareness about child...
