Make me a victim. I’m hungry, so put it in my mouth. Yeah, force my head by my hair like that. God, I can’t breathe. Your penis is like an ice pick. Why am I not dead? Instead, I’m going to cum? Unbelievable shame nearly drives me mad
to this day. I open up my
fucking cunt. I’m bleeding. What an ugly side of existence. I’m just a little girl.
I wish, anyway. I’ll never be
except in ways that keep my
ugly side from sight.
I think it’s more valuable to write about how I see the world because of what’s happened to me. In writing a rape survivor’s narrative, I forgot to give a rape survivor’s perspective. I forgot myself.
My thoughts don’t feel worthy enough to write down. The self disgust is literally choking me. I’m nauseous and gasping for air. My fingertips are cold-blooded–my toes, the room. I want to meaninglessly fuck someone–anyone–to punish myself. I want to relive my fracturing. I want to enjoy it this time. I want to be in control. Maybe the cuming won’t feel like such a dirty secret pleasure this time.
It wasn’t even an issue until Andy from the dorms– I dream of taking a bat to his legs, shattering his hip when he’s down, thereby crippling him for life. But that wouldn’t make me feel better. Only when I know he’s dead, incapable of hurting another person again, will I feel better. Only when everyone stops cautiously whispering about mental illness and sexual assault will I feel better.
Another reason to lash myself: I haven’t yet yelled above a whisper. I need to practice screaming for a while.
Tomorrow.
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