My body is a canvas of scratched out intentions. I have blue marks from broken promises. I am
an atlas used for self-discovery. I am a bed of lessons that were not mine to learn. I am colouring
book to a man who hates art. I am everything you could ever need to validate you on all you
could ever be. And you won’t even remember my name. I welcomed you into my privacy where I found you lacked bedside manners. I changed my mind, but you decided to delete synonyms of
rejection from your vocabulary. Or maybe panic taught me to speak Greek. Or maybe fear erased
my voice. Or maybe my default setting, the alarm to not make things worse was triggered…
Lie still, it will be over, you’ll need to be alive if you want to get out of this.
But I didn’t.
I’m still caged by the letters of your name. I still feel your weight on me as I get out of bed. I still
feel your breath when I turn a corner. Why couldn’t you be a stranger? And allow my mind to
treat you as a boogie man. Then all I’d need is a night light to heal back to normal. Why did you
force me into silence? You were so close to home. You stole my peace, my vibrance, my faith.
You stole my normal. And turned me into a keeper of secrets for the sanity of the ones I love,
and the ones who would never believe me, and the ones who would study the length of my skirt
to justify the system that favours you…at my expense.
What did you do?
You murdered my innocence. You stole my light. You broke my trust. You beat out every ounce
of happiness to feed your sick desire.
Who did this to you?
“My step-father”, she said.
“My brother”, she said.
“My uncle”, she said.
“My friend” “My husband” “My boyfriend” “My colleague” “My boss” “My neighbour…”
You haunt me. You hurt me. You must hate me. But not nearly as much as I hate knowing that
I’m not the only one and I won’t be the last.
And knowing that there’s a h u g e chance…that neither are you.