**it's been four years and i don't know how to say the word ' rape '**

it's like the game i used to play circa . 09' . back of the playground, kids surrounding us to hide. the girl in the bubblegum skirt would slap my hands and i'd try not to cry. my face burning red hot as i sat there, her voice sticking onto my blonde tenth tooth memories. ' don't let them see you hurt . '

your tongue and my throat. such a discouraging way to meet you,

hell. the stars are a thumbprint whispering to me. leave, leave, leave.

and, i don't know how to pick up the pieces.

my body is sinking into the carpet the owner complained about, when the bloody vomit wouldn't stop, and your hands fell onto my thigh.

i'm all tumbling knees,

boy with fire in his eyes

boy, not man.

sweltering the lust and hatred out.

you still haven't learnt your mama's lessons.

how letting the fist go doesn't mean your weak?

or maybe, you just like fucking.

and how my knees are shaking like when i was in eighth grade, first day.

back of the class,

and i still can't escape

justin had very quick hands. like a lot of boys i have met and will continue to meet. except he promised his weren't dirty. a healing hand. a prayer. sometimes i wonder what he was like as a child. when did his humanity turn unbecoming of him? and when was the moment i forgot my words, twisting inwards and leaving me in mid july? i want him to know he left a vacancy inside me. i want him to know i don't forgive him. i want him to know the blood on his hands is still sitting perched up on the creases under my eyes, and slinking through my sinuses. maybe, i need another year.

when does a man become a monster?

i believe a part of them always were. full of pride or anger. unknown to any consequence, never finding irrelevance.

something inside them

waiting

seething

i am not quite sure if i was seasoned in sex or sex was seasoned by me. and the teenage girls who sing, let go of me. let go of me. let go of me.

it’s the killing thing