The sultry evening falls like the silk upon my shoulders
                   I kiss your throat as you write to your mother
It conflicts you, does it not?
                   The memory of her weeping and the very act of your hands
One clutching your pen, the other gliding over the inside of my thigh
                   Both ever so foolishly stained in the purest of black
It certainly conflicts me, my love, for all my tender heart longs for is this:
                   Stain me
Grip my hair, press me harder onto your lap, blacken me
                   Let me see the sweetest stars—
And may they be sweeter than the relish of raspberries upon my mouth
                   Write to your mother about me
I shall kiss you for it
                   And thus, as we clasp hands dreamily, become your muse

The ******* the bridge,
Always on a yellow blouse
And a white flowing skirt.
Never a night does she misses her spot.
Elbows on the railings
Hair fluttering as wild as the wind
Always obscuring her face from sight.

Every night, I wonder
Who is she?
Where is she from?
Why this lonely bridge?
Never seen her move a muscle
Nor utter a sound.
It was rather strange.

Until one night, I decided to chat with her.
"Hey" I called but no response.
She must be coy...
"Hey..." I tried again and approached her this time.
No response still.
Is she deaf?

I touch her shoulder and she turns
She gave a shrilling scream
And that was all I remembered.
In the hospital I woke
And when asked why I had passed out on a bridge,
I could give no response.
I was cold.
The memory brought nothing but pure terror.

For how could I tell them
That the ******* the bridge
Had no face?
Yet she had always gazed down at the flowing stream below
And she had screamed right at me with no mouth on her empty face.

Anytime I walk on the bridge
Her spot is always empty
For she's forever gone
But I still have this wary feeling
That she watches me from the shadows
With that faceless horror
Waiting to take my face for hers.

I can not help but think. Think of those days in which I had no choice. I had no choice in saying no, in saying stop. My voice didn't matter, it had no meaning. I was just a little girl when it all started. It began with the looks, then the dreams. It ended with the touch of those who meant no good and only harm. The dreams never disappeared but the faith in a man returned. We should not hide because the voice within us matters. Our voice matters.