Bones and Bed

Trigger Warning: Sexual Assault

When I tripped out of the room,

I didn’t notice I was crying.

I didn’t notice that my legs were more tense

than the air of that dark room.

All I heard was you grabbing your shoes,

finding your friend,

and walking out the door.

All I heard was a body

screaming at me for cheating

on the person I wanted

my body to be touched by

as I collapsed onto the floor.

All I felt were my numb genitals,

all I felt was nausea and a headache.

All I wanted to do was puke you out of my body,

shower until your touch was erased and

your holy and important orgasm

was out of my poisoned and unanswerable body.

All I felt was Guilt.

Guilt on the end of each toe,

Guilt between my legs,

Guilt on the end of each n****e and

along the sides of my neck,

Guilt shoving my head into the bed pillow

with a hand so forceful I could barely inhale it,

Guilt that thought it could hold me there,

inside me from behind while I could barely see it.

Guilt told me I was too free of a spirit

when I said I was in a relationship,

Guilt grabbed my arm and pulled me,

Guilt hit me in the head with the drywall,

Guilt walked my stumbling feet to the bed.

Guilt,

I barely remember you.

I barely remember you,

and that is the thing that makes me angry.

I could not have remembered you if I had the

desire to do so.

I was depressed and drinking

shots like water,

curing my mirage of pain

and depleting energy for life

so that made admissible

to enter my daze with your own

desires.

So

then all I felt was Anger.

Anger that never knocked on the door,

Anger that did not ask to be let in,

Anger that danced across each layer of my body

that no longer felt celebrated like it used to,

no longer felt meant for my lover like it used to.

Anger that snuck into my dreams

and made me hate my thighs,

made me sweat around foreign men,

Anger that separated me from my boyfriend,

a barricade of anxiety in the darkness of his room,

a room as dark as the one you took me to.

For three years,

I had flashbacks over you,

panic attacks over your alien touch,

and you got one orgasm,

and a life.

One orgasm,

and a future,

one orgasm,

one “easy junior girl p***y”

and a college education.

I got anxiety and

I got nothing and

I starved myself and

I ate too much and

I screamed at my body and

I was silent to my body and

I blamed my brain and

I blamed my breasts and

I was scared of a man touching me and

I was scared of touching a man and

I hated my genitals and

I hated your genitals and

I feared being too drunk and

I always wanted to be too drunk and

I no longer wanted to be alone and

I always wanted to be alone and

I died before the birth of my

maturity was even an option

because I was a sixteen and

I was a child.

But there was something that never let me be alone.

Hope slept in bed with me

only when I asked it to.

Hope held my hand when I gave consent,

and left me alone when I could not stand to look at it.

Hope knew I needed time to let it love me,

and for me to love it back.

Hope held my breasts,

held me like a broken sculpture

and let my tears soak into its absorbance.

Hope stood by my door and waited for me to let it in.

Together, Hope and I sat,

and Hope and I dreamt.

Hope told me one day,

I would stop this from happening to a

young girl drinking shots like water.

One day,

drinking shots like water won’t be a

reason for Guilt to knock her beside the head,

and give her something to spend years

wanting to puke back up.

Hope told me one day,

Anger wouldn’t let itself in without permission,

or keep that girl from loving her waistline

and thighs

and her taste and

her eyes.

Hope told me it would sleep in her bed

if she asked it to

but Hope hoped it would never have to.

Hope told me there were things I could do

to make sure it never had to.

So now all I feel is Hope.