When it happened
I was already dying
everything
happening
slowly
and then
it
was
done.

and I fought
but even if I hadn’t
I would still be to blame
for the shame
i ran from
that night
followed
me
for
ever.

so now I’m a dead girl-woman
writing to you from the other side
just to talk.
about this

Well not really talk
just describe
a story that
happened
to
repeat
itself
again.

and
again.

Until we were
all
silenced
by
our
own
admission
as damaged goods.

knowing
that people
look at you
with
fear

somehow
you're catching
contagious
victimhood
and
tell
you
“well just don’t walk alone tonight.”

As though somehow
you would be to blame
if it happens again

but this time
you're sure
you’d just *******
**** him

before
running
again.

because at least this time
someone
else could
bleed
instead.