his name was sunny, but he was dark.

poetry about my abuser.

1) I bite my tongue as the boy behind the counter tells me the story of a known molester who goes to his school, who drugged a girl but got away Scott free. How could I have told him that girl was me?

2) It's 10:18 pm, and I can't sleep.
I've made my nightly cocktail of any sedatives I can find to ease my racing mind, But there is nothing I can really find to make it go away.
These images flashing behind my eyes, a trauma I can never forget, so I stay up until the very last second, not letting my conscious mind force me to watch him hand me that drink over and over again.

And than I sleep.