Year.

You stopped writing the day after he tried to rape you.
You still don’t believe it happened even after a year.
You find excuses, making yourself sound crazy.
You’re overreacting.
At least he apologized.
He didn’t mean it.
He got carried away.
So you stopped writing to make room for all the bullshit inside
Trying to rectify a temple of shame telling yourself that you’re actually okay––
I’m better.
I’m healing.
What rape?

I was asked if I could change one thing, what would it be?
And I chose that night because even though
He took my virginity months before when we were fresh and new and 
So intertwined
He took a part of me, vulnerability, I can’t get back.
Pieces I’m still finding are missing when I could have sworn they were there.
But shadows of lies can build bridges––
neurotransmitters, synaptic pathways, quick quick quick
Quick enough to forgive your rapist but not yourself.

50 states is no longer big enough and
Your skin feels too tight.
I wanted a family but now I’m untrusting more so of 
Any man since.
Even thought I watched my father leave my mother
And a new man streak her cheeks with tears
Painting sockets blue and yellow and

The next time I had sex I panicked.

Love marks. Cover it with makeup and tell the girls over wine.
His hands had left bruises on my thighs.
A friend from a few counties away: 
We were safe & laughed &tried to see straight enough to make each other cum but…

So your rapist moves away
And deletes his Tumblr
And you change yours at least twenty
Times to get him off your scent.

You block him on Facebook and a year goes by when on the side
PEOPLE YOU MAY KNOW
He has a photography business.
And the same photos you emailed Tumblr to remove remain.
You know there’s no point in reporting again. They’re not mine.
Legally they’re his.
Legally they remain
pieces.

I’ve wanted to lose weight but never in this way.

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