in which recovery is pretty hard
|Nobody said it'd be like this. Nobody said I'd be sixteen
and digging my bones out from a trashcan behind the
cheap apartment I live in, seventeen and walking the
streets as if I own anything other than the bruises that
you left me with, eighteen and hiding behind a pile of
anti-depressants that never seem to be fast enough to
make you leave.
And hell if I ever forget how I tried to wash you away,
how I scrubbed my skin to pieces until I was sure that
you were gone from every inch of me, only for a stupid
cotton swab to prove that you've hidden yourself in every
pore, every curve, every goddamn crevice of my body. Hell
if I ever forget the way I said no.
I don't want to be writing this, don't want to document
the bruises he left on me, just like I don't want to feel
his hands around me every time I take off my clothes.
Just like I don't want to feel so goddamn dirty anymore.
But I am living with this corpse of a body in a police
investigation room where boys with your face, your eyes,
your fucking smile, walk past me as if I am not that
poor girl who buried her own coffin, nailed her own death
into the ground.
You dug into my skin, but you also felt more like me
than I ever fucking did, so no, I don't want to be writing
this. I don't want to be thinking about this at all. Yet
I've never felt so goddamn sorry for a pair of hands before.
Nobody said it'd be like this. Nobody said it'd ever be like this.