Eyes With No Faces

Eyes with no faces
That see through your soul
Flames that burn bright
In a circle that glows
Darkness around, some stars in the sky
A full moon behind trees
As clouds float by
One by one
They move around me
Eyes with no faces
Is all I can see
They give me a potion
It makes my eyes tired
But sleep does not come
For that is not desired
Naked on a slab
My hands are not free
One stands alone
He looks down on me
He holds in his hands, a dagger I see
It has a red jewel, like his eyes on me
He puts it inside me
Where no one should be
I feel it's cold steel
As my blood runs free
And the warmth of his mouth
As he sucks upon me
One by one I feel them in me
But the pain does not come
Because I, am not me
When they are done
They look down on me
Eyes with no faces
Is all I can see

By a Survivor of ritual abuse-torture

Donated January 5, 2003

Host, Kids, Skye, Hunter

host ( 37 yrs old, female)
Fragments of vision returned
bit by bit, shearing my heart, my soul, my mind.
Sight wavers and distorts moment to moment
Fears of blindness and darkness forbade
Color blinded by the past
My vision today is a struggle to see clearly
I am left to discover and decipher what is real
Happiness is when the darkness does not overcome
serenity is when chaos is calmed within
even for only a brief moment,
these times cherished...
torn, tainted, tortured, left to die in the past
torn, fighting, tortured within, in fighting to heal
Victory when no injury results,
Victory so I am told is we still fight.....
Poison runs through our veins
We are the sickness
they hold
scared of you, scared of us
scared of humans, scared to love
scared to cry. scared to live
scared to die
good hurts, love stings
hurt is black, trust hurts
to care is to fear losing what you care about.
scared every day,,,,,,,
don’t want poison

Skye ( teen insider/helper of the kids)
I see the light shine just out of my reach
their hands which punished, hurt, tormented the children
while silent now, they still reach and clasp our soul
taunt us with the voices we will never earn the freedom into the light
Pain of loss, remorse, guilt swell as the light fades yet again
physical pain locked deep within to remind us of our restraints on our
yet we move freely so no one will know..
sleepless or nightmare ridden,,, we awake and work,,, so no one will
we stay silent and cry within so no one will know
children within remain silenced within through terror
If anyone knew we would be the crazy ones as so many have told us
Years of therapy to see the fragmented selves of their doing
The ghosts of the past reside within and haunt daily.
Feelings of not belonging, disgust of self, revolting bodies
Lost souls within,,,,,,,,,

Hunter (once a persecuting alter inside)
Obsessions, rage, evil desires invade my mind
Once valued are now in disgust.
failure at my mission to destroy
leaves me tormented by the evil one within
his voice penetrates my mind with torture as I once did to others
Challenge the lies and my mind is left electrified
Punishment reigns for those who do not comply
Hope of the chains of the evils will be broken some day....
slowly the distance of then and now gets farther,,,
savior is love and voice, to silence the lies

… a 37 year old female Survivor of ritual abuse-torture

Donated November 24, 2003

If Momma Came Back

Momma won't put us in dark places

or let men hurt us or tell us our arms
are gonna be pulled off
and we will be beat with the bloody ends.
Momma will smile when we look at her,
momma won't pull our teeth with a rag and make us hurt.
Momma won't put pee in our ears and make our ears go deaf.
Momma won't kick us or slap us
or give us hurts in our eyes.
Momma won't put lye soap in our mouth
and make us get sores in it so we can't swallow.
Momma won't put tooth ache medicine on our bottom
or put soap on our raw bottom and burn us
till we cry
and momma won't give us worms inside
and feed us sugar so we feel like we will explode.
I want my momma to love me and I don't like alone.

10 yr old Insider of an ritual abuse-torture Survivor
Donated December 7, 2003

One memory of hundreds

Words sear deeply into
my already terror-stricken

seven year old child
to become the slave of
the slave of my abusers

dragged to where the
fire was burning,
beaten first. Severely
on my head and face and jaw.
told he would make
sure I couldn't eat
his food again

washed and clothed for
sodomized and tortured
branded to become the property of

genitals burned with hot shit liquid
burns that soon became infected,
left untreated
branded as satan's slave forever

or so I was told

I am dead and
satan will torment me forever

so I am told

can this just remain a memory

one of hundreds?

Is there healing for my unseen wounds?

Will people stop calling me a liar?

By “A.”, a Survivor of ritual abuse-torture

Donated December 19, 2003

Be Safe My Child

Call it strength, call it creative, or call it power,

It was her only defence, to protect the flower.
She stayed a bud,
A flower that did not bloom.
Isabel had no more room
To do what she should.
That is to tell, if she could.
The price is high and separates Isabel from others.
Like a sister from a brother.
Isabel does not know what she feels or what is to care,
She is numb with pain and terror.
Isabel did not see a way to escape
The great tragedy called child-rape.
For Isabel it was a one-way street out there.
She is a little girl whose life I wish to share.
Share her with people from near and far.
Look upwards and see her star.
Isabel is finally safe.
She found her hiding place.

By: Judy M.

Donated November 22, 2003

how can i trust

i live in a world of pain and fright
i cannot trust the things i hear
nightmares that blend both day and night
mixing together in continuous fear
i wake in pain and see the bruises of the night
how can i trust that the pain i feel
happened long ago and not last night
for it blends and which is real
i feel the snakes they made me eat
that grew inside my mouth with haste
how can i trust the things i eat
its snakes instead of food that i taste
because i did something wrong
i feel fingers touching me
hoping the punishment wont last long
promising to be as good as i can be
how can i know what is real
for this is merely just one day
how can i trust what i hear taste and feel
in the nightmares of the night and day

… child survivor of ritual abuse-torture under 12 years of age

Donated November 20, 2003

Father's Erection

Part 1: Crushed Between
The cement Block
And Fathers Erection
Thats where I lay
Not Knowing Why
Who am I?

Oh yes, the demons say,
that I am
Satans child.
(and that I am good, and special
and right and wrong)

Part 2: Who Knows Why
my Fathers hand rips through
(crashing through all internal organs
on the way) ?!

AND who knows How
Knows my name
And where my room is?

AND what is this called
the lies and ties and screams and cries
And little Babies wrapped around

AND How can it be
That good is Bad and Bad is good
and up-right is wrong and wrong is right!?

“Cause that’s the way it is”
the Big Bad wolf once said
ready to be sacrificed.

By Maya … (age 17)
Poem printed with permission from
Stone Angels Journal Survivors of ritual abuse
Issue #1 1993 Thunder Bay, Ontario

Donated November 24, 2003

What will the Answer be?

I honor two whose dedication and commitment
to revealing the existence of
Abuse beyond belief, will seek

Yet louder FAR than sound of human voice
are silent, desperate cries from
tortured Memory,
unrelieved reliving of a Child's long suffered hell
shared so vividly, without pretence

O that those who see the Poems might read
more than the fear-based words.
O that those who stand before the Art might see
beyond each colored shape and pencilled form

Yet will they understand?
Those who sit in seats of power
so far distanced from the stark reality of R.A.T.
Will there be ONE soul to grasp the real
significance of undiluted PAIN.
Unrelenting, unrelieved atrocities inflicted
on each body, mind and soul?

Who, within UN sequestered Halls
will really HEAR?
not trite attempts to flaunt emotional drama,
or sob a "poor me" tale,
that every blood-bought poem and drawing
represents a Past and Present
EVIL of the vilest ilk
perpetrated with impunity


its tentacles, spread malignantly
throughout the World
can be effectively and permanently

UN members hold the first solution,
and once informed, remain accountable

Will there be integrity,
an honest inner searching of Self and
conscience, asking,
"What will I DO?"

Our R.A.T. Survivors place their HOPE
for life and sanity into a stranger's hands,
at cost unknown to those who merely are
Observers of their living hells.

Their messages today have cut the
Code of Silence
Will the UN grant a hearing of their Voice
and offer Liberty
or shut the door on them and stay
this side in willing ignorance and disbelief?

Past and Present Evil lies before all at the Presentation.
All who have risked so much to gain the
ear and heart and mind of those who listen,
wait for what the FUTURE might unfold
according to each UN member's answer to the
question all must ask themselves,
"What will I DO about the R.A.T. dilemma
within MY jurisdiction?"

"Will I look with self-respect into the eyes of
each Survivor and tell them
I have HEARD your Voice,
I will DO something?"

Goessoftly, a carer and supporter of R.A.T. survivors

Donated February 2004

Path of the Black Widow

I watch her kneel in submission at the Master's feet.
I cringe as the whip strikes again and again
and she moans and writhes in ecstasy...the way he likes.
Daddy or Master...does it matter?

I watch as he lifts her,
surges in and out of her frail little body,
impales her...fore and aft.
A toy...a plaything...his property.

I watch as he gives her away to his friends.
She screams like a rabbit...they laugh.
We scream silently as they beat, rape, sodomize and torture her.
Rabbit is born.

Here Pussy, Pussy!
Into the cage and onto the stage.
Onto the stage with the cameras, needles, razors, and whips.
Burning candles leaving fiery trails of wax as they drip on her silky skin.
We scream silently in pain for us as she writhes in ecstasy for them...
The Masters.

Why can't I die? I am already dead.
A Zombie risen from the grave,
Brazenly prancing on the stage,
Night upon night, follows day after day,
Audiences full of men applauding and catcalling,
Privileges and Gold won for the Master.
Won for Daddy.
Please, God, let me die.

The kiss of the whip is an old friend,
The sting of the leather strap,
The agony of the cane ... life can never be the same.
Princess turned kajira...as the carousel spins.

Warped to please the Masters,
Everything turned backwards.
Pleasure is pain...Pain is pleasure.
The spider is placed in the platinum web.

The Coterie?

Author: Ophelia.
Donated November 17, 2003

• “The Coterie is the name of our system. A coterie is the term
used for an orphanage in some cultures. We consider ourselves orphans
if for no other reason than the fact that any "parent" who would condone
this type, or any type, of abuse of their child doesn't deserve the honor
of being called or considered a parent."
• Coterie—select circle in society, persons associated by
exclusive interest—i.e., RAT coculture (The Reader’s Digest Great

Encyclopaedic Dictionary (Vol. 1). London: The Reader’s Digest.)

The need for good helpers

(written in plea of the need for therapists to really believe)

You wonder what is true, is it believable
as do we... your words can stifle us or help us grow.
We need to believe, not just know, we are heard
We need to believe there is safety in therapy.
Reeneactments are unavoidable,,,
how could it not be,,,,
please do not react, simply act, assist our process
We do not know what this journey entails
Do you ?
Please know this for yourself I beg you of this
The fragility of the unbelievable needs you
to hold conviction, willingness, and honesty.

Please hear what is said through our words,
and just as importantly our silence, our confusion,
through art, play, writings, and through all within,
With these in place we will and shall not only learn
but believe what love, trust, freedom can be.

Written by a Survivor.

Life, As We Know It

Life, as we know it
Only a few short years ago
Before that
There was only us
A multiple of us’ that lived
It was the light that held us together
And it was with light
That they tried to break us apart
Into so many pieces
So we couldn’t tell
Bright lights
Flashing lights
Intermittent bulging fat lights
That came in through my eyes
And ate
All the way through
To my spirit
And kept me separate from all
The other parts of myself
As if that wasn’t enough
They gave needles
Filled with the stuff that was
Hot when it went in
And turned me cold
From the inside out
Medicine they said
That took away any feeling
Or movement of the body
And made me lay still
So they could do
Whatever they wanted
And all I could do
Was yell
In silence

Shamai … a survivor of ritual abuse-torture

December 22, 2003

my scotch taped heart

please, don't be mean to me
my heart is held together
with scotch tape
and my mind is
the victim of a rape
I am despairing
please don't give my brain
more reasons to despise me
the hole in my heart
just keeps growing
my life shall spill right out
a river of blood
staining my soul
my hands covered
my head bowed
a prayer escapes my lips
a supplication of my soul
please, don't hurt me
this cracked mirror
can take no more.


Donated December 16, 2003




Purest-White Penis


Baby Pink Skies


Soiled Sheets Again

Father God

Father Son

Father Spirit


Thrashes about

Looking Clean-Shaven



The only cross part –

That ungentle gentile penis

Stopping Near Silence

Where Serpents Await


Purest-White Penis


Out Of

Baby Pink Beginnings

Then serpents once more...

At last the ceremony is over

I kneel down

On Calloused, Bent Knee

Begging The Powers That Be --

Father God

Father Son

Father Spirit

That in the end

My hands will be made free.

Written by: Andrea-Dawn

Donated December 14, 2003

The Lost Child

The masks, the painted faces,
Loud and hideous laughter, hangings,
Darkened hallways, black like blood,
My Blood.
Sick games, beatings, porno,
Not a sound from our mouths was allowed.
Snakes inside me, Oh God
Altars, candles, closed doors,
Drugs, dog leash, tummy sick,
My baby to sacrifice,
Knives, crosses, robes,
Ropes, terrified children,
Rape, electric shocks, buckets of blood,
Drinking the blood, crying, screaming,
Chickens, lambs, dogs and cats.
Chanting, demons, stairs.
Ring around a rosie,
pocketful of posies,
Hush, hush, we all fall down.
Pain, tears, numb,
Shhhhhhhhhhh - don't tell.
Death, hoods, touching.
Sissy, choose a child to sacrifice,
or you will die.
Shhhhhhhh - never tell.
Giselle, the keeper of the secrets.
Shame, disgust, guilt.
Black, dark, my soul,

Angelwings – Canadian Survivor of ritual abuse-torture


Lavado de cerebro roughly translated Brainwashing
¿cómo se lava el cerebro? how is brainwashing done?
se explotan las necesidades básicas basic needs are exploited
se agudiza el sentido de culpa guilt feelings promoted
se promueve la desesperanza des pair and defenseless
y la indefensión

many things were told
le dijeron muchas cosas many things she believed
que ella se creyó; she was so a victim of deceit
le dijeron tantas cosas
que se confundió. a little girl she was
needy and wounded...

Era una niña...
necesitada y herida. Memories that make no sense!
What did they want?
¡Cuántos recuerdos sin sentido! What were they looking for?
¿qué buscaban? ¿qué querían?
It was first a game
Primero era un juego... Life it was called
el juego de la Vida playing to be grown up
el juego de "ser grande", planning how it will be
planear cómo sería... ... and then... what happened?
después... ¿qué pasó? the buzz in her ears
el ronroneo en los oídos the electricity on her body?
y ¿la electricidad?
the iceman's face
el hombre de cara de hielo scares her to death!
¡qué miedo le da!
pretend to be a spy?
¿jugar a ser espía? what a game!
las imágenes rápidas ante sus ojos rapid images to her eyes
sembrando en su mente implanting what they wanted
lo que ellos queríana
thread on her throat
un hilo en su garganta that she was to remove
que debía quitar a little girl, only 8 years old!
una niña de ocho años; a plastic on her face
un plástico en su rostro the air was gone.
no la dejaba respirar
un programa de retorno a return program...
¿es ese el nombre que le dan? is that how it is called?
voces, imágenes en su mente voices,images in her mind

instrucciones para actuar instructions, hypnosis, drugs
hipnosis, drogas... images implanted
imágenes sembradas what do they want?
¿qué buscan? ¿qué quieren? what are they looking for?
no importa. ¡que la dejen en paz! it doesn't matter. Leave her
By PetroNila, a survivor of ritual abuse-torture

Donated December 15, 2003

Am I Dead?

Him who was supposed to be my protector
Him who was supposed to be my brother
Him who buried me and I was still alive
Him who buried me and I was still breathing

Am I dead?

I don’t understand
I am scared
I am cold
I am covered with sand from head to toe
How do I escape from this underground grave?
I don’t understand!

Am I dead?

I can’t move
I can’t wiggle

Am I dead?

I don’t understand
My spirit leaves to an unknown place
It’s a Dark, Dark, Dark, place 3 times over
Standing there naked, is it really me?
I don’t understand

Am I dead?

The Eyes they bounce
The eyes they dance
It laughs with a wicked sound
It sways back and forth
It dances and teases
I don’t understand

Am I dead?

It touches with a sharp sting
It goes faster and faster
I don’t understand

Am I dead?

Its tongue with two sharp ends
Licks my eyes down to my nose
Licks my ears down to my mouth
Licks down my neck and squeezes
I am going to choke
I don’t understand

Am I dead?

I have to remember something important
What was it? I almost forgot
There I see behind this wicked thing
A bright light that glows, love, trust,
Protection, kindness and hope and escape

I know I can’t forget.

As I stand there, I feel more braver
The wicked thing can’t bother me
The wicked thing can’t take my soul
How long did it go on?
It seemed forever

Him [my brother] digs me up
Him [my brother] is scared that I am dead
Him [my brother] slaps, slaps me

I can’t feel it at first
As I go back to my body
my face stings a little
Him [my brother] says he gave me new life
Him [my brother] wants to know what happened

I say nothing

Him [my brother] yells at me and slaps me
Him [my brother] is mad

I still say nothing
I’m in a tub with hot, hot water
With the lady next door standing over me
How did I get there?
Was it the night my brother buried me?
I don’t understand
She scrubs every inch of my body

Maybe my skin will turn white this time

She reads from a black book:

Through you walk through the valley of death you will sin no more

Or was it:

Though you walk through the valley of death
you will walk with evil

I know this is wrong
I will not listen

Am I dead again?

I know it says

Though you walk through the valley of death
You will fear no evil

As she says her little phrase
She pours black things on me
They stick to my skin
She grabs me out
Pours salt on me and the black things fall

Once more my skin hurts
I feel weak
I feel dirty
I hear talking behind the door
I hear her say

Cut her hair for the devil plays with it. When
She sleeps it is all tangled up.

Now to bed I go
I want mommy. I want daddy.

Am I dead once more?

As my brother, and the lady’s son
Take their turn in bed
I don’t understand

Am I dead?

They do cut my hair
Short Short
I am ashamed
I am not me anymore.

Beatrice, a Ojibway survivor who was raised in Northwestern Ontario

Donated February 13, 2004 (The Stone Angels Journal, Vol. 1, 2, 4)

Please hear what is said through our words,
and just as importantly our silence, our confusion,
through art, play, writings, and through all within,
With these in place we will and shall not only learn
but believe what love, trust, freedom can be.