You should've cut my veins open instead.
It would've been easier,
because you can heal from physical cuts and bruises.
Instead, you had to twist my words
and tell me what you wanted:
A bottle of wine,
when all I drink is gin.
A night in bed,
without an invitation inside my body.
The very thought made me sick.
You sexualized my body,
and told me how much you want inside.
Kept asking those fucking questions when all I said was "no."
You asked if you ever had a chance of getting me into bed.
It feels like eons have stretched between Tuesday and now,
and when I repeat that question,
all I do is shudder,
caught between hatred, rage, despair, and relief.
I'm happy that I'm safe,
but why do I feel so dirty when I did nothing wrong?
