I called the Hotline last night.
Searching for a release, a way to forget.
And as much as I try to drown myself in others,
Making their problems my own so I won't have to face what's inside,
The nightmare of you still haunts me.
I thought I was over it, that I could move past what you did.
Yet all I could muster to tell the stranger on the phone,
was that you stole from me. You stole my innocence.
You took what was supposed to be an awkward, funny story of my first time, and used my body for your gain.
You held me down until my arms gave and my fight was gone.
I told you to stop, and you heard "keep going".
And you did exactly that.

I don't know why I give you so much power over me.
It's because of you that I don't allow anyone to get close,
that I tense up whenever someone does something as simple as putting a hand on my shoulder.
You are the reason that something that is supposed to be valued, and special, has no meaning whatsoever.
You ruined so many things for me in the course of an hour.
You are the reason that I'm scared to get close to anybody new.
Every time I have to explain to someone what you did, I break.
I relive.
The ghosts of your hands linger, the familiarity of breath on my neck stings.
A simple kiss reminds me of the way you couldn't.
Believe me, I've tried to find someone that could break this curse.
Someone that could fix me.
But it's because of you that I feel nothing and everything all at once.
I've earned the title of empathetic sociopath.
And I fear that I'll never outlive the reputation.

And what astounds me the most is that you still had the audacity to ask about me.
You had the audacity to come to my home, the one place I thought was safe.
You contorted the situation, made me a puppet on strings.
You somehow made me believe it was my fault.
And in little ways I still believe it is.
Every time someone asks me why I didn't fight harder, I believe.
Every time I see the pity in their eyes, I believe.
And most of all, every night this hits me, I believe.

And even though I was tempting fate with a foot in the grave before you came into the picture,
You'll be the reason I'm six feet deep, headstone and all.
You are that final mound of dirt, the reason I no longer breathe.
I hope it was worth it.