I won't say "no" twice.

if you didn't listen
the first time,

then I have no reason
to believe that you'll
listen to the second.

and you cannot
complain that you
were not warned
before I scorched
every inch of
your skin.

that one "no"
was your warning.

you won't feel
those warm breaths
you expected to feel
against your neck.

you will feel pain,
because I will
breathe fire.

I will watch
as your life
goes up in flames

and I will smile
the same sadistic smile
that you thought you
would have right now.

the tables have turned.
now, you are the person
coated in fear and gasoline

and I am the person
holding the matches.

I'm mad at you
and I don't want
to be mad at you.

but at the same time,
I'm not mad enough.
I should be angrier.

there have always been
gaps in my memory,
places where my trauma
nibbled away until the
memories were useless.

you knew this.

I have spent years of
my life trying to recover,
trying to patch up
the holes in my memory.

I lost my entire childhood.
I spent all of it trying to
remember what my brain
wanted me to forget.

I have cried and hurt
and panicked and once,
I even tried to give up.

for most of my life,
I have hated myself
and harmed myself.

you knew this.

you knew how badly
this ****** up my life.

you even tried comforting me,
giving me brotherly speeches
and advice that I took to heart.

I trusted you.
for all of these years,
I have trusted you.

the memories came back.
I haven't slept in six days.
I am being slowly destroyed
by my own mind, and
I don't know how to stop it.

you were there that night.
I ran to your room and
I banged on the door
and you opened it,
and I told you everything.

you were the voice
in the bathroom with me,
helping me undress
and assessing my injuries.

you knew what happened,
and you said nothing.

I know you were young,
and I know that this has
traumatized both of us.

but you were old enough
to remember everything.

you remember the
blood stains and the
fear in my eyes and
how I barely knew what
had happened to me.

I understand why you
didn't say anything
on that night all of
those years ago,

but why didn't you
say anything when
I was older and you saw
how it shattered me?

I almost killed myself
trying to remember
what you already knew.

this is my body.
that was my trauma.
those were my memories.

you knew this whole time.
you knew everything.
you ******* knew,
and you said nothing.

why did you say nothing?
why didn't you tell me?

I just need to know.
why didn't you tell me?

why did you keep this
locked inside of your brain
while mine desperately
searched to find it?

how could you?
I trusted you.

and this whole time,
you already knew.

I guess you could say
that I feel broken.

it's this feeling where
I'm in the room,
and you can see me,
but I'm not here.

it's kind of like
I left pieces of me
everywhere I went.

I dropped my
idea of safety
while I was running.

it landed on the corner
of Morris Park
and Fillmore street,
and was tainted by
my friend's blood
pouring out onto
the concrete.

I didn't want it back.

my innocence was
left shivering
on the pool table
in my first
boyfriend's basement.

I remember thinking
that this was the
right place to
leave it, and
then crying once
I realized it was gone.

my faith in humanity
was lost too.

it fell somewhere
between the cracks
in all of this violence,
and was swallowed
by the fog of dust
and debris.

I don't know
where the rest of me
disappeared to.

maybe I gave too much
of myself away
when I tried to help
everyone else,
and ended up
forgetting to
help myself.

or maybe
I left those pieces
with the people
I loved, in the
places where
we used to go.

maybe, if you looked,
you could still find me

in my laughter
echoing under
the streetlights

or hidden deep
in the shadows
where we used
to park our cars

or floating towards
the sky in a cloud
of marijuana smoke

or stuck to the lips
of someone I loved once.

but maybe,
there's a chance
that all of me is still here,
even though I feel
so broken.

maybe I'm not incomplete.

maybe I am still enough,
even with all of these
missing pieces.

and maybe, one day,
I will find myself again.

if I were to get famous
for some talent that
I haven't discovered yet,

and stand in front
of an audience with
hundreds of people,

I don't think I could do it.

but that's not because
of my stage fright.

I don't need to imagine the
audience in their underwear,
or whatever trick performers use.

I don't think I could do it
because my eyes would never
stop scanning the crowd.

even in a sea of
people who love me,

I could not stop
searching for you.

and it's so much easier
to imagine that the audience
is wearing something dumb

than it is to imagine
you being a part of that audience.

I couldn't trick myself into
believing that you are there.
you're not.

my imagination can't change that.