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Black Tides - A Story of Loss and Abuse

Gaping holes where black rivers ran deep. Where black tears ran down my black skin. Where my pride was taken hostage. Day by day relinquishing innocence because it felt good to be wanted.

Black Tides - A Story of Loss and Abuse

By Allison Theresa

Gaping holes where black rivers ran deep.

Where black tears ran down my black skin.

Where my pride was taken hostage.

Day by day relinquishing innocence because it felt good to be wanted.

But they didn't want meThey just wanted me to continue to disregard my agony caused by an abusive daddy and an oblivious mommy.

They wanted to watch my mouth purse as I swallowed Dominican rum, and they wanted to watch my eyes widen as I inhaled Dominican manhood.

I was a feast to ravage, and a supple young animal to conquer.

At the time it felt good, and now...Well now, I haven't forgotten those moments; they haunt me.

I never stopped wondering why I couldn't help myself.

Why I couldn't find other ways to be strong, to be smart, and to be loved.

Maybe I should have just asked, but as a young girl I didn't know how to ask for something that I knew deep down inside, I shouldn't have to.

Now, I am bruised, but it feels good.

Dried out, but the pen is still bleeding.No longer dwelling in the moments of what haves and should nots.Nothing could have changed this, and when I realize that fact, I laugh. Yes, I laugh.

And it's no longer a broken heart that I suffer from, love was always just a fantasy gone awry.

Now, I suffer from hope, and I will until I'm dead.But until then, my skin is threaded from each encounter with them, with everyone.

My existence has been woven from stifling tears and captivating dialogs, hands held tightly and blind glances exchanged; scorned kisses that once felt like rose petals.

My womb has become hollow; where wet dreams run wild, and drips down walls once held up by the need to be released. My heart has become hollow, where moans taunt me, and echoes through walls once held up by the need to cum, from this space of emptiness.And one day while you are sinking in your own emptiness, you will smell something like a sweet burning wood of Indian crescent moons. Just remember, that was the taste of my mind crawling from the ashes of obscene sexual ties and irrevocable lies. You will still be my slave even then, when you smell the moon burning. But it will only be a dream, one that you can never forget, just as I can never forget my scars.

These scars I have acquired, scars that speak in tongues and barely know from whence they came; they own me. They whisper to me, telling me to turn the tables; that I need to own them and condemn their memories, and to grow old with them, but not allow them to kill me.

Now, how I've come to love these scars that are engraved on me, derived from making love to some devils in disguise that wanted to leave their mark on an innocent soul, but a not so innocent girl. Now, these scars they appear so ancient, but they are only as old as me. Hieroglyphics on my black skin telling tales of love and war, and spilling secrets of contempt. Every night I am drowning in sheets of black tides, yearning for a command, but mostly someone’s love.

A thought creeps over my body every few hours of lovers v w x y and z, maybe even all at the same time. Never would a sunrise or sunset come to pass without a rekindling in my mind of kisses and climaxes, of love and loss. Moreover, I am okay with that. I reconditioned my mind repeatedly to be content with my sexuality, something that was condemned and questioned, and rightfully so, but only by me. No one else should have be questioning my sexuality; you like it or you don't. I dripped sex apparently, I oozed it, and vultures let me know that.

Allison Theresa is a native New York writer devoting herself in the social services and non-profit professions. As a psychology and religion major, Allison relishes in human interaction, and constant observation of individuals from diverse groups and lifestyles. Allison plays devil’s advocate in her life and relationships, which often translates to her writing, an art devoted to introspection and healing. Ensuing from a turbulent life of her own, Allison is a suicide-attempt survivor. In her failure at ending her life, she realized how sad and weak she was, and has not only evolved from that dark place but has learned how to cope, and why it was absolutely necessary. Nothing more than bringing a child into this world has made her want to stay alive.

Allison makes love with her words, and voices are born unto her. By writing, she has not only formed countless bonds with others, but she found a way to go insane, and fall in love with herself time after time again. Allison is currently working on her first book of poetry, being released in May of 2016. When she isn’t incessantly ruminating on the streets of New York, she is reading her daughter Dakota’s writing, a budding and hopeful author like her insane mom. Experience Allison’s work on Instagram and Twitter @TheKotaLane

Tags: culture