One Outgrowth of Being Raped

At the tender age of twelve
I was, cultivated by
The welt of the belt,
Ripe for the picking by all those
Hearty young men in the field.

Now gone to seed from maturation,
I can bear no more
The well intentioned hand’s intrusion
Trying to manipulate me as they see fit,
For my own good. Yeah right!

No more! Stand back; stay clear; beware.
Don’t touch me; don’t tell me what you want to see.
I choose to grow wild and become
What I am meant to be,
Thorns and all, for only me.