Your Hands

smp_news_focus_rape-art_1You treat me like they did.

Like an object, like a warm body designed only to satisfy your needs.

You don’t see it, but when you’re kissing my neck I am cringing. I am fighting back tears so you don’t know how painful this is for me. I don’t know why I keep letting this happen. I am so outspoken and so fiercely independent in every other aspect of my life, but ever since them, when it comes to men, I have no fight. I am weak and pliable and worthless.

I hate this feeling. I hate feeling so disgusting when I crawl into bed at night. I feel dirty and no shower can erase the sensation of your hands or theirs. It’s like they’ve been engrained into my skin, tattooed forever, stains that everyone can see if they look hard enough. My heart breaks every time you look at me, because it reminds me that I have allowed myself to again become trapped in this situation. I know there is a way out, I can see the door, but I don’t know how to get to it.

I am screaming internally every minute of every day. I just want somebody to know that I am locked in this never ending nightmare. I can’t even escape it in my sleep. My demons follow me from the waking world into my dreams and back again. You and they are everywhere and I can’t seem to hide.

I just want out. I need out. The stress is messing with my mood swings and I can’t seem to stop destroying my arms. How many more scars can you and I leave before I finally give up? Because as much as I try to convince myself and everyone else, I am not indestructible.

I need to keep swimming. I need to keep fighting. I’m just so tired. Head above water, though, right?

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