Word is attack for storyin12. Had a strange dream I’m writing out so be warned. Photo for Sinful Sunday at the bottom if you’d like to skip to it.
He’d taken me in, a lost black girl in a predominately white enclave. He sheltered me, taught me what love felt like, and touched my body in ways that made me gasp and beg.
I thought I was safe.
One day we traveled to a tourist area, someplace abundant with trees I’d never seen before. He draped my shoulders in a lovely green throw to ward of the descending autumn chill.
There were eyes everywhere. Eyes that burned along my skin as we explored. Malice and other heavy emotions permeated the air around me. I pulled my throw tighter around my shoulders and stayed close to His side.
I thought I could relax and enjoy our vacation. Those stares meant relaxing was an impossible illusion.
When we visited a museum tucked in the trees, they separated us. A coordinated attack I couldn’t escape.
It was a sea of angry faces and grasping hands. They backed me into a corner, peeled me from the throw, and divested me of my clothing. I was at their mercy, no longer safe.
Pressed into that corner, a hand sank into my hair to hold me still. Other hands bruised my skin, delivering cruel pinches and rough explorations.
It was the names called me when they took turns using me. Heaping insults on my dark skin as they spilled come on my body.
I was an example. This is what they did to “my kind”.
There was no safety here.