I paid my therapist £600 for a piece of paper
to tell me what's wrong with me.
I don't care about money, it's just a figure
like the numb large sum
Sitting in my bank account.

How you ****** me up
I dream of you,
I dream a river of red, dyed by your blood
How much I wish I hit you
with that glass, again and again, on the
back of your head, until you fall down
When you locked me in that room
And stopped me in my road.

If I had a trigger, I would have pulled it
a thousand times over. No blink.
No,
they are all wrong. "You were too slutty"
"It's because you were frivolous"
How is jeans and a hoodie frivolous?
Tell me, how is it my fault
for a man three times my age to try
ripping my clothes off
at 16 year old?