This is a poem that Carl Beech wrote:

The boy I use to be: I was a frightened, lonely boy, no one cared. A sweet in a bag to be handed out and shared. They came in the night and they came in the day. Myself and my friend were always their prey. We were broken, isolated, we were their property. Used and abused, just a shared commodity. I endured the humiliation and the pain. The hurt, the guilt, the fear and the shame. I was hit a lot, it broke my body. Then the kissing, touching, to them I was nobody. The hurt me and broke me each time I was raped. But in my mind I was elsewhere, trying to escape. My bruises and injuries were there for all to see. My teachers, doctors, even my mum did not help me. Years of hell I had to survive. But somehow I made it, I'm her and I'm alive. It's been years since the last assault. Hiding the secret, thinking it was my fault. I was small and helpless, there was nothing I could have done. I had to do as I was told whilst they had their fun. But they had the power, the power over me. I was trapped, locked in and they held the key. It's now time to use the H word, a powerful word HATE. I would like to say it to their face, but it's now too late. I HATE what they did to me, I HATE what they made me do. I HATE the remembering, reliving but I HATE the secrets too. I HATE the flashbacks, the nightmares after all these years. I HATE the pain, the guilt, the shame and the tears. It's a long, bumpy and painful road to drive. But I have to do it if I want to thrive. Thinking about it all burns in my heart. But writing it down for me is a start. The abuse has left me with issues to resolve. But I will persevere until the problems solved.

That poem was taken from this survivors' newsletter