I still have the scars;
deep, hurting, bold scars.
Not physically, but emotionally they are there.
The bruises lasted for so long;
so dark and defiant.
On my face, my chest, my legs.
He hit and pushed and threw me down;
treated me like I was nothing.
An object.
My screams could only be heard in my head.
Why couldn't I get them out?
His hot, beer drenched breath on my face;
it made me nauseous.
My cries meant nothing to him.
He hurt, hurt, hurt.
How could he do this?
How could he not see this is wrong?
His sweaty, smelly body on me,
pushing,
holding me down.
Keeping me from running.
His finger tips kneading into my skin;
roughly groping,
as if searching for something.
My face was numb.
I had no more feeling.
He didn't care.
I prayed for him to stop;
for all of this to end.
He hurt, hurt, hurt,
…and then left.
I felt his body rise up, off and out of mine.
His sticky, satisfied body.
He dressed and left,
no feelings what so ever.
I sat there,
naked.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
Praying for the earth to swallow me up.
It wouldn't.
Three years and the pain is still there;
the disappointment,
the shame.
Three years…
and I'll never forget.
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