Prisoner By Jemma O’Donovan-Young

He held her tightly,

his arms uninvited iron bars

barricading her in.

Her tiny frame trapped beneath him,

an unwanted weight

against her organs.

She could feel his heartbeat

and she wanted hers to stop.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

 

He’d forgotten the meaning –

or forgotten the language.

He pressed harder,

forcing his undeserving lips against hers,

his breath acidic enough to kill her,

inhabiting her airways.

He saw her tears,

but chose to ignore them.

 

He pushed his hand onto her stomach,

pinching her skin.

His actions volatile,

his grip tightened.

She panicked.

His grip tightened.

She panicked.

His grip tightened.

 

You’re gonna have to do it someday, he says.

She forces his hand away

from her pelvis.

 

Someday is not today.

 

jemmalaa@blogspot.co.uk

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