At nineteen,
I told you my deepest darkest secret.
I thought I could rely on you to hold my hand through the pain.
Figured the fact we knew each other for so long meant we had a bond.

At nineteen, I told you he ***** me.

At nineteen, you shapeshifted.
You morphed into a volcano.
You became explosive with rage.

You told me it was my fault.
That I had to make it up to you.

At nineteen, I told you more truths.
At nineteen, you refused to believe
Or acknowledge, understand,
Or even think for a second that he tried to **** me.

I guess that was something only you were allowed to do.

But it’s all true.
The years I’ve spent walking through hell.
From both of you.
I know you said to never compare you to him.
But you’re much the same.
That’s why you were so afraid when in a sentence I spoke both your names.