Screaming, I beg for anything to describe the alexithymia pounding through my skull.

I learned that word today, It means the inability to describe or express a feeling

Or maybe lethoeue

I made that one myself.

It describes the constant existence of wanting to forget something insufferable

I need to speak up.

A word, a sound, a plea just to elaborate the quiet suffering caused by my ex-lover

If that's the politically correct word to call her. 

But then again, I don’t care. Call her what you want

My abuser

My attacker 

My first love

Or so I thought

When I talk about her

People stare at my emotions through the person I was, or who they thought I was

My skin, my muscles, my bones, my heart

My disintegrated childhood piles in their hands like ash

Attempts are made to glue back together something that never actually, truly existed

Although even at that as soon as she touched my flesh

And fused my soul forever to hers 

Molten ash reheated and burned my innocence

I was 12

She was 17

I changed

I’ll keep changing

But I’ll never be sorry.