Real

He had showed me a gun

I still don't know if it was real.

Real, was the sliver of light

Reflected off the sharp edge of the knife

He stood close to me, towering,

casually holding it up for me to see it's point

like this was show and tell at school.

Calmly he propped it up against the ashtray

like a half smoked cigarette.

balanced with care as if to give it a good view,

as it it wants to see,

tilted towards us, watching.

The metal glistened,

like the leering grin of a voyeur.

The blade was my only witness.

It saw everything.

It heard his demand,

saw my eyes return to it 

With quick, hot panic.

Pleased with my fear the grimace widened,

in on the whole thing

I've wondered if the knife even needed be present

for my defences to have failed.

Was is perhaps the paralysis I'd learnt?

Conditioned to freeze by another abuser,

I lost my fight long ago.

He was just lucky to find a girl already so broken. 

Did he know I was using him?

Out of desperation I'd accepted his advances,

thinking that a big, scary boyfriend

may frighten my abuser and so bring and end to that kind of hurt.

Little did I know

I'd be hurt worse.

Surely, I thought, this won't happen twice.

But neither life nor the knife will give you a break

just because you think you've already suffered enough,

so he raped me.