I was raped.
I was abused.
But what proof do I have?
No one will believe me.
My parents love me.
I finished my study.
I have a decent job.
What else could I ask for?
I should be happy.
I am blessed.
I should be thankful.
I am blessed.
I should be grateful.
I am blessed.
I am supposed to be all that.
But
I was almost raped.
I was almost abused.
Just almost, but it lingers and never forgotten. It keeps on playing as if it was just a dream, or a nightmare instead, as if it is only a make believe. How would I know?
YOU ARE READING
It's Not About Us (But What If It's About Us)
PoetryHe / She simply doesn't like us. Period. Sometimes it's hard to get that. That the idea is too foreign. We keep on asking and telling ourselves, "Why not? I am a limited edition, he / she will not find anyone like me." There is a bunch of reasons th...
