Tuesday 4:24 pm
I woke up in a hospital bed, my wrists are in restraints.
I was told I had taken three and a half Xanax and I attempted to swallowed a bottle of Trazodone.
IVs were in my arms.
an overweight woman taking my blood pressure (it was low).
I remember looking over at my mom shaking her head whispering something to my dad. I wish I knew what they were talking about. I wish the pills had done their job.

rewind

Monday 9:09 pm
I feel the weight, the burning of his skin rubbing against my raw legs
I feel him contort my body into positions I didn't know were possible.
He pushed my face into his bed sheets,
suffocating me, I tried to moan for him to get off of me.
I woke up to a police officer shaking me- asking where
my clothes were. I wish I could have formed a sentence in that moment,
But all I could mutter from my lips was
"where am I?"
"what happened to me?'

I was brought out into the brisk March night, to see my father with his face in his palms shaking. Why was he crying?
What was so wrong.

Fast forward
Tuesday 6:02 am

I woke up the next morning in my bed- my ******* alarm blaring.
I had never been in so much pain mentally,
physically. I could still feel him inside me.
I threw on an old shirt and a pair of sweatpants laying on the floor.
Making my way to the bathroom I saw where he left his mark on me
my neck bruised from his teeth.
traces of his fingertips digging into my skin still lingered on my *******.

I remember walking out of school that Tuesday,
puking in the garbage can and sitting in my dads car as he drove me home.

Fast forward 4:26 pm
My doctor informed my parents my system was clean, that I could go home.

M, you asked me to have dinner with you and your grandparents.
It was supposed to be a harmless night- but that wasn't your intention with me, no you wanted to strip me from my dignity,
show me off to the world without my consent,
but that wasn't the only situation I didn't consent to with you.

r.h. (March 21, 2018)

If you care about someone, don’t hurt them. If someone is in a relationship don’t ruin it. If someone is hurting comfort them. If someone trusts you, don’t break that trust. If someone is in love, don’t make them feel less that worthy to be loved back. If you love your best friend tell them. If someone needs a hand to hold then hold it as tight as you can- because at any moment they can start slipping away from you and it won’t be their fault. It isn’t their fault they felt less than worthy. It isn’t their fault they cry sometimes. It’s not their fault that they need to be comforted. What isn’t okay is when the someone puts all their trust and love into someone else and they go and break it. It isn’t okay to watch your best friend cry because you took away their sunshine. It isn’t ******* okay to take away someone’s reason for getting up in the mornings. It’s not okay to make someone feel like this.

I think everything starts of strong,
too strong. I think it began with the epiphanic violin solo, that breathed you aren't alone; even though, I feel so alone.
while we walked through the museums and I stood in front of Van Gogh's Irises and you said that I looked like I belonged there, I belonged everywhere. I think my love for you began to blossom on the nights in late May, in your car listening to Morrissey while you were smoking your favorite cigarette. I laid in the seat being ****** into eternal darkness. I constantly thought of Madisen Kuhn's words, while they lingered in my mind: “everything you’ve ever loved has been loved before, and everything you are has already been,”

She said that my love for you isn't organic, my love isn't unique- but I promise you it is, My love for you could never be expressed fully through words. So I will tell you this, I love you,
for who you are. I love your favorite cigarette, I love the irises we spent hours looking at, I love who I am with you- I feel real, I feel alive. You make me feel alive.

I see myself draped in red from the waste down, locking the door of a carpeted bathroom to which I may or may not have a right according to the owner.
I do have a right, though, for I forever outrun owners and dignitaries, malcontents and over-fed politicians.
I defecate happily something harsh to their ears but soft on my ***. Gratefully, I turn the page to another day. This one will not catch me in such distress.
My bowel symphony this morning has four movements and I begin to get impatient after the third because I've made up my mind that I want to read Fitzgerald.
The fourth comes appeasingly and short, a toot in good nature and I clean myself quickly, completely.
I hop downstairs to comb my hair and eat carrots. But my mother is chasing after me stronger than usual, still holding the pill she wants me to take.
I get the carrot and end the poem.