I wish I could see myself the way somebody in that dead-end street did.
Enough to pull myself together just like some stranger pulled me close to him.
And enough to appreciate my body just like the abuser did.
But all I knew since I was twelves is hating what's under clothes: my skin.
I wish I could remember that blurry night when somebody got me drunk on a bottle of wine.
When I let some stranger hands touched me like they knew me all my entire life.
And when I begged him to stop, he just kept doing whatever he was doing in the middle of that night.
But all I can remember is me waking up almost naked in my bed, feeling dirty, about to throw out, with a blackout mind.
Shaking nervously, knot on my throat.
My friends know what someone's done.
They think what I told is fun.
When they supposed to hold me on.
Speechless, writing poems.
Scared of telling how it was.
What if they say this is my fault.
I guess, I'm the one to blame after all.
I wish I could forget that night coming back from work, I wish I would never have answered when the taxi man asked me how I've been.
Poor naive, innocent and stupid boy who thought that guy was being nice.
Then one hand was on my thigh and the other going down my back.
I was with the seat belt, asking him to let me get off the car but then he locked the car doors and all I could do was cry out loud.
No one was around, no one heard me out.
It was only me and the man with green eyes.
I remember running away desperately from him leaving all behind, my spirit never came back and my heart turned into ice.
After all, all I do is remember how it was, what they said and where they touched and where they've been.
After all, I can't get off myself and this feeling of hatred every time I see my reflection in the mirror.
Thanks to them, now I wish I could get over my skin but I can't and it burns and it hurts and it turns back to me.
You're the one, the only one to blame.
Guilty I am.
Trust just a little bit to end up on flames.
Enough to hate the way I am.
Enough to hate the skin they crave.
