Can I just write a poem that says "**** the police"
for every single line
for every single stanza
and leave it at that?

Because I'm imagining his next victim, because there will be a next one,
and how she will feel when she finds out that he had my former report
on his private police record, accessible only by certain police.

I want to scream, but the metal chain he put around my throat to choke me because
"ha ha you like that, right?" after I had already said no
is still there, so nothing can come out of my mouth,
except I've been screaming as loud as I can for so long;

One year and I'm still not free.

His body weight is still crushing me, still heavy; the bruises on my body still felt every day, my body a museum of decaying loss and my mind a perfect video recording that plays on repeat whenever I just
want
some
sleep;

Nightmares I wake from and can't wake from.

I think one of the hardest days of my life was when I got my **** kit.
I mean- you know- other than the actual ****.
I developed a stutter that day.
I blame myself.
I blame. I -I- I blame myself.
But I can't!

All of the "no's" that I said to him didn't matter, the police said;
everything non consensual didn't count;
it was only the one coerced "yes" that counted;

Scared for my life but, **** the police, right?

And all the times that I said to the police "yes" that I was *****,
collapse and boom like a bomb on deaf ears of police that tell me that,
"maybe you just regretted having *** with him."

Or how about when they rolled their eyes when they learned that I met him on tinder?
I gave them a smile and answered that yes, that's true, because what else was I supposed to do but tell the truth?

Or the first thing they said to me was "so then you had a few drinks..."
Well no, sir, that's not what happned, at all.

See, there have been multiple levels of injustice here and I thought I was doing the right thing to heal.

In my partial hospitalization program that I went to for PTSD,
that I got from my ******,
I learned that the "right" thing to do was to seek help right away after a traumatic incident so that it doesn't lead to lifelong suffering;
Quick help leads to a faster recovery,
and I've always wanted to do the right thing:

Like getting him arrested for ****** me.

But the police don't listen even when your body has been confiscated, graffiti marked by your ******,
and the police tell you coldly to just seek counseling because, after all,
you "consented,"
and that your ****** isn't a ****** in the eyes of the law.
A ****** isn't a ****** but is a ****** and he's going free.
I did the right thing but I'm still stuck night after night, waking up crying;
I wonder who will be next, and that person's weight is added on top of me;
The gallery of bruises he inflicts will just continue, and I wonder where on snapchat will they be next?

The sky crackles and I feel the most alone.

Just like that day in the woods.

My special place was off the trail, but he couldn't have known me,

I was so young and such an idiot,

Not everyone is genuine but I was so trusting,

I can still smell the sickening mixture of fresh-fallen rain,his sweat, the mud around the creek and salt from my tears.

With every atmospheric collision from the sky
my stomach churns tasting the blood in my mouth from his fist thundering against my tear stained cheeks.

When the wind blows  
I can still feel his callous hands bruising and exploring my unwilling body, and scraping against
the most intimate parts of me.

The lightning is when I remember the rock that found my desperate palms and crashing against his temple

The wind howls and the rain finally starts to fall then, near my belly button burns just like it did when the blade he swung wildly cut me before I could run and the water is my heartbeat pounding  in my ears,
but I can hear him behind me
The rush If my blood reminding me I’m still alive mind begging me to stay that way, his threats pushing me further

Head pounding ,body burning,
I burst through my front door

And then I start to cry

For a long time I was very scared to write about my emotions. For even longer than that, I've been very scared of writing about emotional experiences. I mean, I wrote about them, but I put them in the context.

I let a metaphoric poem tell the world about molestation or depression. I danced around the fire as it burned me, hoping my wild movements might appease some higher god into letting me forget myself.

I'm not condemning anyone who finds strength in this form of poetry, I just wasnt doing it for that reason. For me, metaphor was an escape not a release. I looked around at the pages laid before me and found only stepping stones into memories I'd have rather forgotten. Playing hopscotch on the fingers of child molesters.

When I was very young, I was woken in the middle of the night by a stranger's hands down my pants. He whispered I'd be okay as I tried to push him away until I finally got up and left the room. My cousin sat on the couch to the side of me. As I walked away he proceeded to touch her too. It was probably around 3 in the morning. My family, or the ones who could stay awake, were drinking heavily and talking loudly about things I didn't understand. I sat in a stairwell hidden from them. Close enough for them to hear me breathing. And I couldn't muster the courage to tell them what had happened. What was happening just downstairs to my cousin of the same age.

For a long time I tried to make people laugh. Because I was too sad to know why and I didn't know how to show it. I moved my fingers across the fine lines on people's faces and scrunched my nose at them. I hated them for being what I wanted. For laughing like I wished I could.

I let laughter find me a path to peoples happiness hoping it would come to me. But it never did. I lost myself in being a person I never wanted to be and I did it because I thought contentment was in someone else.

When I was a little boy my mom was dating a man named Danny. I'm sure by now I've blocked out every memory of this man except the one that lives with me. A memory torn in two because I see my sister and my mom. My sister a mirror image of myself, wrapped in duct tape from head to toe like a mummy. Nose and mouth too. Danny's handiwork. Were both shouting through silver tape, and trying to let someone know that our air is finite and our lungs are small. My mom finally tells Danny to stop. Not concerned so much as annoyed.

For a long time I tried to **** myself. I walked a razor line tying together old bits of my skin and dragging them behind me. Sewing the solid chunks of plain happiness to the rotting vibrant gangrene of my depressed parts. Hoping I could heal all the decomposed skin with a little bit of happy motivation.

I let other people remind me of who I was. Forgetting all the time and being reminded again and again so I could try to be someone new. Someone only they could see.

When I was a teenager, my dad and stepmom came up with a system for helping me lose weight. At any chance they'd get, they would make small remarks or comments about how my weight affected me daily. From how far down the car drops when I step in it, to my girlfriend's must be cheating on me cause why me. I didn't realize this was supposed to be for help. So I began to see myself as who I was and to this day I can't see my girlfriend walking down the street near another person without wondering if they are together because I'm a fat slob. I can't get in a car without wondering if anyone's noticed how much its moved because I've stepped in. At this point, I'm just hoping for the heart attack.

For a long time. I was only the pieces of myself I let other people see. I was a mirror that caught every Whisper and disgusted glance and fell apart whenever I actually saw myself. I couldn't be me. But this mirror is broken and cracked, all the chips replaced with parts from different mirrors.

I let that mirror shatter recently. And it's scary trying to decide who I am. In a world full of people holding up mirrors.

they will try to tell you I tried to **** myself.

I swear, it wasn't that.

It's just that the weeds were growing through my ribs and down my back and into my lungs, and no one likes weeds.

so I tried to drink **** killer.

instead it just burnt my throat and made my skin feel like sandpaper

it ripped out my taste buds and numbed the bridge of my nose

and it didn't even get rid of the ******* weeds.

Beware humans, you remember
that you have a limit.

Beware you foolish humans, you are crossing a line.
Beware idiot humans, for the shiver up your spine.

I see the ones who cross the line of human
I see the ones who push themselves to inhuman

You! You humans, are you giving me a threat?
I foreshadow your dooms, the money you bet

No creature has gone this far! Aren't you afraid?
Can't you see the destruction you already raid?

Beware! None is perfect! Be the way you are
Press to your skins and feel! The proud white scars

Enough is enough! Now beware you foolish!
Mountains are crumbling, mammals look ghoulish.

Beware you humans, I will repeat!
Until you sob in rubble of the broken streets.

Beware! The perfects who represent your knifes.
You use your brains to spoil your lifes.

Don't you growl at me, you terrible creatures!
You have no one to blame for they are your features!

Beware you humans- I repeat, beware!

**Last time I tell you, no mercy no care!