Someday I’ll send my demons to gnash their teeth and grind your bones, but for now I’ll sip my drink and curse your name.
When the depths of my despair seem boundless, I am reminded of my capacity to feel. If my sorrow can be boundless, why not my joy?
On days like today I’ll gather every sliver of hope until I make it through.
[TW: rape, alcohol]
How long does it take before I can look at myself in the mirror and not think about what your face looked like that night? How long does it take before I don’t hear you telling me you “won’t judge me like the other boys” before ramming your cock down my throat? How long does it take before you fade from my mind?
[I think I sob so hard because I want to drown out your voice in my head. It doesn’t matter if I sob so loud I wake the whole house, I can still hear you.]
How long does it take before you can sleep peacefully again? How many nights will I wake up screaming? How many nights will end with scratches and bruises earned in my dreams? How many nights will I try to drink away the memories?
[I think I drink so much because I want to wash your memory out of my mind. It doesn’t matter if I throw up or black out, you’re still taunting me in my dreams.]
How long until I don’t feel your cock pressed against my panties? How long until I forget the way you shoved me up against my pillows? How long until I don’t feel your cum oozing down my throat, out my mouth, on my breasts? How long until I forget how you taste?
[I think I make my bathwater so hot because I want to boil your touch off my skin. It doesn’t matter that by now I’ve shed the actual skin you touched, I still feel you.]
How long does it take before a rape victim becomes a functioning member of society again? Is it weeks, months, years, decades? How long?
[I think the answer is a lifetime.]
"You reap what you sow" some say, but I never deserved what you did to me.
You killed me the night you fucked me.
Or perhaps I just wish you had, because somehow I’m still here. At least physically, definitely not mentally or spiritually or however you wish to define what lives inside the body.
I am the scratched record you no longer play, but keep around because it has always been in the stack.
I am a haunted house at the top of the hill with a sagging porch, peeling paint, and an abandoned tire swing in the front yard.
I am a shattered crystal vase in the department store aisle everyone avoids so they don’t have to clean up the mess.
I am the abandoned, half-naked doll at the bottom of the toy box you keep meaning to throw out in your parents’ attic.
I am no longer a person filled with hopes and dreams, but a corpse full of whiskey-soaked memories and regret.
You are the one who committed the crime, so why am I the one doing the time in the prison of their mind?
Is This Lucidity or Paranoia: An Individual’s Struggle With Mental Stability by Me