Wrists

Don't grab my wrists, I might say.

It takes me back to places--

places I don't want to stay.

I'll start breathing hard,

like I did when.. 

you know.. it happened..

I was scared,

lost, 

and lonely.

And, well.

I guess I can tell you.. 

what happened next.

As I look down, I can still remember him.

I can see his muscular hands crushing my wrists.

Leaving purple bruises for all to see.

Pinned against a cold brick building..

he swiped at my clothing,

tearing away at my shirt.

I screamed for help,

but my screams were muffled by an open palm, 

and the scraps of my shirt were shoved in my mouth.

Broken glass scraped against my bareness.

I was crushed by his weight.

I could hear his belt buckle coming undone.

I was..

broken.

I was..

torn.

I was..

humiliated.

I still don't know who he is,

or what he does,

or if he has a family.

I don't know if he remembers me,

or if he's scarred others,

or if it was just me.

All I remember is the deep purple,

the deep purple that I lie about.

All I remember..

is pain that I still feel now.