For The Victims

Ted Bundy

I was taken against my will

and forced to spread my legs

and hear the awful satisfaction

as he screams in sinful delight

and tears my insides with his penis.

Makes noises like a rabid dog.

Howling and growling with sickly satisfaction

as he violates my body in the worst way.

I know now that Lucifer exists

because I’ve met his finest creation.

I was screaming for my mommy

and begging for this monster to stop.

But all that did was encourage him to do more.

So, he punched my mouth and broke my jaw.

I was no longer able to speak.

I had lost virtually all of my sanity

as he poured his vile fluids inside me.

I looked up in the sky

with salty bloody black eyes

and began to realize.

No longer will I dream of losing my virginity to my love

because he spread his poison inside me.

I will never get married because he will kill me

because I saw his face, and I can’t defend myself.

My body and soul were beaten and broken

like a snail’s shell after meeting a human foot.

The last image I saw

wasn’t my children or my children’s children.

Instead, I saw a huge rock, as I tried to

scream mixed with blood,

to scream through broken teeth

and bleeding gums.

Splash!

The earth was mixed with my blood and brains.

I can only thank God I left after the first blow

as he keeps doing it over and over again

until my face looks like a broken mirror.

I was a person with a dream.

I was going to college to be a teacher.

I was only 17 and loved to help people.

I was a virgin and that’s all he saw,

and he used my good nature against me.

His name will survive long after he’s gone

in textbooks, biographies, documentaries and movies.

But I will just get a column in the paper when they find me,

and, in time, my name will be forgotten.

You will remember the killer.

But how will you remember the victim?

What makes the killer’s name more important?

What about our names?


From my novel, Madness in a Recession. Available now on Amazon.