Sometimes saying yes is easier than saying no and because of that, I can’t call myself a victim.
I didn’t technically say yes, but I technically didn’t say no.
What happened was that he leaned into me closely and he whispered in my ear what he had been planning to do to me.
The ways that he had dreamed of riping apart my body limb by limb.
How he would take his time on each and every inch of my body until I was unable to move and how it would be so intense my body would still shake for hours afterwards.
To him, it sounded like a fantasy. To me, it sounded like a massacre.
My heart started to race and my blood grew cold.
My veins filled with the blasting sound of sirens that couldn’t seem to make it past the concrete that had filled my throat.
I couldn’t say no.
I couldn’t say anything.
I doubted that my body would be left shaking because my body froze so quickly that I couldn’t move any part of it at all.
He began to tear my clothes as though it was Christmas and my body was the present under the tree that he had been waiting months to get his hands on.
Maybe I should have felt like a present, maybe it should have made me feel wanted.
But I didn’t feel wanted and I didn’t want to be a present.
I wanted to be coal. I wanted to be tossed aside and thrown out
I didn’t realize it would only be a matter of time before that happened too.
I won’t go into depth about how precisely he carried out every detail of his plan.
I won’t describe too thoroughly how his hands felt like sandpaper as he threw me around the room and how the saliva coming off of his tongue felt like acid burning my body with each and every taste that he took of me.
I won’t recount how many bite marks and bruises were left on my body the same way that skid marks are left on a road when somebody is trying to escape the scene of a crime too quickly.
What I will tell you though is that only real sandpaper was strong enough to get the feeling of his hands off of my body.
I’ll tell you that I can’t even close my eyes without seeing his lure down at me with a look that’s ignited by fires of pure desire and a hunger for stripping away last traces of innocence.
I’ll tell you that my clothes from that day were torn into shreds smaller than the pieces of shattered glass that fell to the floor as I broke every mirror inside of my house so that I wouldn’t have to look at myself again and feel the disgust of that day.
Pure, unfiltered, deathly disgust.
Enough to cause the acid in my stomach to rise into my mouth as I lean over toilet seats and sit on the shower floor with water so hot beating down on me as I pray that it melts the skin right off of my bones.
Disgust.
Disgust that I was over there. Disgust that I couldn’t see this coming.
Disgust that I had put myself in this position. Disgust that my body froze instead of deciding to fight.
I froze. I was frozen.
To call myself a victim just doesn’t seem fair.
With a body full of bricks and a throat filled with concrete I was frozen,
And I couldn’t say no.

There are some things that are too hard to say,
Too shameful to speak out loud.
So you keep them in, you stay silent.
You let them rot your organs and disassemble your bones.
You let them seep into your veins and create internal gashes that never heal or close.
They silence every other word; they destroy any sliver of hope.
They prowl around in your mind as they tell you that you’re to blame.
That this has happened before, you must put yourself in these situations.
That you wanted it.
That you asked for it.
That you were the one who went over there in the first place.
I didn’t want it.
I didn’t want that to happen to me.
People will ask why you stayed quiet.
They will ask why didn’t you go to the police.
But I’ll never tell anyone about it because there are some things that are too hard to say and too shameful to speak out loud.

I gasp life-giving air into my lungs for the first time in a long time.
The trees provide a perfect shelter as they surround me on all sides.
Their roots are deep and the stability of this place is tangible in my bones.
It’s unfair to ask you to be my forest though.

The water crashes above the surface but I’m safe here under the waves.
The pressure covers me and grounds me into a sense of relief.
It’s calming enough to settle my anxious thoughts, it moves me steady.
I am swayed by the rhythm of the movement as the tides roll in and out.
It’s unfair to ask you to be my ocean though.

I reach the top and all of my hard works finally feels like it’s paid off.
I can look below and see how far I’ve come; I can see the victory of what I’ve accomplished.
This view gives me a new perspective of life and everything is starting to make sense.
It’s unfair to ask you to be the peak of my mountain though.

The drops hit my skin and I am reminded of what it feels like to be alive.
The timing is sometimes unpredictable but it makes me thankful that there is still some kind of consistency.
Now matter how many times it comes and goes, I know that it will always come back.
I know that it will bring beauty and growth and revive what once was dead.
It’s unfair to ask you to be my rain though.

The shutters are closed but the lights are on.
The boxes are finally unpacked and every item has found a place to dwell.
I never knew what it meant to abide, but I feel like I have finally found the definition.
This isn’t a place to come and go, this is a place I never want to leave.
It’s unfair to ask you to be my home though.

You can't be my forest.
You can't be my ocean.
You can't be my mountain peak.
You can't be my rain.
You can't be my home.

I'm sorry that I still ask you to be.

My hands have been tied behind my back for far too long
But I guess it doesn’t matter because everything has always been out of my reach anyway.
Maybe this is for the best,
There’s been too many times I’ve tried to grab onto things that weren’t mine to grab onto.
No matter how hard I try, you’re always slipping out of my grasp
Kind of like those grains of sand I could never keep in my hands.
They slowly find their way of escaping, just like you did.
They say what’s meant to be will find it’s way to you
But all my life the roads I've followed have lead me further from home,
If such a place even exists.
The ties around my wrists are starting to burn,
I can’t help but wish they were around my neck instead.
I probably shouldn’t say that out loud though.
I keep reaching out for you even though I know you’re not here
And I guess that’s why I’m thankful my hands are tied.

The clocks are slowly creeping and I know that it’s been killing you
Don’t tell me how much time we’ve wasted waiting for unspoken words to come up for air;
I know you’ve been counting the seconds as they pass.
I keep coughing up old promises that got lost somewhere along our path
My lungs can’t handle the dust of our old dreams any longer.
Trying to swallow gravel isn’t as easy as it seems
But thankfully my throat is already numb from the words that have been buried there for years
I’m trying to keep my head above water but I can’t help throwing myself under knowing that you’re drowning too
It would make sense for me to try to save you but I’d rather us go down together because we’ve never succeeded living at peace above the waves.
This might make everything sound hopeless but you and I both know I’ve always had too much faith in us.
These seconds are all that I have left and I am trying to savor them before you’re pulled away again
All that I know is that I’d cross every ocean until one of them leads me to you.

I haven’t been able to write for a while and I find myself knocking on the door of my mind wondering when something will come out next
I’m waiting for a surge of inspiration or a burst of creativity
But I keep finding myself to be entirely hollow
Writing has always been bittersweet for me;
I think it’s because the pen in my hand will only work if there’s pain behind the ink
I guess you could say that I’ve been scared to write anything new because I’m tired of reliving those memories with every broken sentence I write.
You see, if I heal the pain, my pen runs out of ink and I lose the passion
But if I keep feeding the pen in order to keep writing, I lose my happiness.
My life has always felt that way though.
I’ve always been in a dark room unable to see.
And maybe I’ve always had the tools in my hand to fix the light
But how am I supposed to fix something if I don’t know where it is?

I’ve been clinging onto you so tightly
and yet my hands are still empty.