I'm sitting across from her,
My mom,
And she's standing across this concrete field,
Talking about it,
Talking about that time she got drunk and how he ***** her,
And she's so far away,
She looks smaller than my world when I was five,

And I can't tell if she shaking or I'm cold,
But then I think that "if I was cold, my tears wouldn't be so warm"
And then I realize I'm crying
And I realize that I can never tell her
I can't tell her because I can see how much pain she's in
And I can feel how much it's hurting me
And I know I can never tell her that it happened to me, too

And the little girl inside me that cried when it happened
Is screaming that IT ISN'T FAIR
But I haven't been that little girl in so long
That I forget how she saw the world
Forget what it was like before
"Have to wear pants, no skirts, and don't let them see cleavage"

My body is a secret I won't tell
Even at a slumber party after the lights are out
And we should all be in bed
But they'll justify it
By telling me that even if my clothes stayed quiet
And I stayed sober
My body was asking for it with hips and lips an *******

But I don't see a question mark,
All I see are marks that turn to scars,
That turn to sitting in a dim room with my therapist
Wondering how to untie the knots in my stomach
And the knots in my tongue

But even though my knots are impeccable
I could never be a boy scout
Because I was never prepared for this
And I was never prepared for this
And I was never prepared to listen to the **** stories
Ans I never prepared to tell my own