Stats say, one in every three girls will have experienced rape or sexual abuse in their lives

I am one of three daughters.

For most of my life, I have been told I am a work of art

My body a work of art a canvas, stretched far apart,

White. Clean. Pristine.

My body is a canvas

That was once used to experiment

Abused

To comprehend feeling prowess.

So instead of calling me art

You can call me an experiment.

techniques used to paint my body

paint splatters, smudging, finger painting and scalpel yielding

not to forget the embossing.

none too smooth strokes

as if all left of the brush was the wood it came with

digging deep into the skin it etched across

hands, greedy to have found a body to feast upon

fingers, holding hands above my head in an iron clasp

a new way to finger paint i guess

textures and the sound of nails scrapping on a blackboard

ringing in my ears : art is not just to see.

and one cigarette burn on my breast.

embossed.

refuses to go away.

on patch of skin burnt for eternity

does not fade away.

My body is an artwork

that struggles to fit in

it has no art movement that would take it in.

Maybe all it is , is a failed experiment

They never really raped me you see

They, stopped before it got too bad

they stopped, before it got too bad?

the two men who assaulted me

never got to finish what they began with

you see i was “lucky”

to have gotten away before they finished what they started

lucky to have them leave ONLY their signatures all over me

lucky to see their faces every time the man i love gets close to me

lucky to see them clearer than any dreams i see

lucky to not know where my real ends and their hands begin.

My eyes see them more than i see my own reality

days dont feel real until i see a part of them and

nights dont seem too complete till i feel their hands all over me

touching

every part of me

painting , my skin every shade of attack

covert, insidious, invisible dripping paint

slowly poisoning every man i see.

faces blending into traces of outlines

moving, welding into the faces of these men : these two men

My PTSD, they call it

has turned me into a masochist.

the pain, only sign i exist

i guess i am addicted.

relieving, painting my own skin over and over again

i cut and bleed i cut and bleed i cut and i bleed the red

just another color

another painting on my skin

Painting the same memory. Over and over again.

Till i question if i can ever be sane again

Till i question if i can ever love again

Till i question if i can be loved again.

My body is used to abuse.

an artwork on display

an abstract to accept or throwaway.

Maybe all i need is to love myself again

maybe i need to learn to paint again

let myself breathe again

stand back and really see myself again.

my paint my story my scars

and all of me,

and recognize.

my body is a masterpiece.

it was never meant to fit in.

I am a spoken word poet and the co-founder of a spoken word community in my city in India. I have been writing and teaching poetry across the city in the past year, talking about things that are stigmatized, learning from my own experience, I think poetry can be a powerful tool of expression when it comes to healing.