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little girls with dreams

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Little girls with dreams grow up to become women with vision.

  • Unknown.




  Tokumatsu is six years old, and she is all wide eyes and childish innocence. She cries when she scrapes her knee, when she's away from her mother too long, when one of her classmates tease her, and everyone thinks she's weird.  


Tokumatsu is five years old, lonely and alone, desperately wanting approval, and far too pretty for her own good.


This is how it happens;


    Tokumatsu is starved (from touch, from approval, from attention,) and desperate, and even if she weren’t five years old, the talk she would’ve gotten about sex would have been disturbingly mirroring the same thing she hears from the mouth of her assaulter, from his attitude, the way he acted, still acts, as if she owes him, as if he owns her. (How she’s just so pretty, her hair so long and her eyes all bright and her skin just so warm and so smooth.)


This is how it stops;


  Not really, never fully, even when it stops, it doesn’t end. Always remaining a part of her, a thing of shame inside of her. (Chipping away at the remains of her heart, until she’s not too sure whether it’s all that’s left of her or whether that was all there ever really was.)


This is how she deals; some days she doesn’t, somedays it drags her down, keeps her tied to the bed, her bones too heavy to lift with the weight of her depression.


This is how she deals; all of her showers are cold, because being warm is a terrifying reminder of hot breath on her nape; because he always liked how warm she was.


This is how she deals; not all the time, sometimes she doesn’t deal at all, gets out of bed, eats her breakfast, kisses her mother goodbye and goes to school, sits through the lectures numbly, doesn’t even have the energy to flinch when one of the teachers gets too close to her.


This is how she deals; not alone, never alone.


This is how she heals;


 Slowly, gradually, seemingly fine one day and not the next. This is how she heals; all of her life, it never starting being okay. It isn’t expected of her to be.


It never leaves her; but the furious shame of it isn’t festering inside of her anymore.