I don't want to talk about it.

June 3, 2009
By
Pink Bic razors remind me of the time I first cut myself;
Little scratches up and down my left arm,
Red blood trickling through, down my arm, being washed away by the stream of a late night shower
Healing into a rusty red thin scab, crusted on my arm, stinging occasionally to remind myself why I even did it.
Mountain Dew Code Red reminds me of why I cut myself.
I took a swig from his two liter red Mountain Dew bottle the day he put his hands all over me.
The day he touched me was the day I changed
The person I once was became lost in translation, a confused emotional turmoil.
Like my feelings are piling up high on each other and my happiness is suffocating under the weight of depression and uncertainty.
It’s like carrying 1,000 pounds up a mountain, all of the force has fallen on my shoulders, and myself weak, enables me to move from where I am.
I can’t remember a day since where it hasn’t plagued my mind.
In the back of my head, it remains a vision and experience burned in my memory.
Letting him do it to me is my biggest regret.
Seeing someone who made you feeling so many emotions is straight up painful.
It makes me wonder why I ever agreed to it in the first place.





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