My only comfort as my tears fall with the water Is the fact that I'm scrubbing away his hands, His touch, His lips, His skin. Washcloth against skin, Red erupts from my pores, But I don't care because I need to get his scent off of me. Just a whiff, and I gag, My tears congealing in my throat. Why me? What did I do? His hands were so soft, But so strong, and I could not escape. Washcloth against skin, I don't even know where to begin, For he stripped me down to the very bone And lay my soul and body naked. His fault? Yes. My fault? They'll think so. Red flows down my legs because of Washcloth against skin. I drown myself in cherry blossom body wash, The off brand kind. My last thought before I stop the water is "But I'm not even pretty."
A poem for all of those who are victims of ****** assault, whether male or female. You are all survivors <3