already dead.

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something in me died the second he had done that to my body.

realizing what i had let him do knowing i had never wanted it to happen.
i was frozen on the way home,
to where then i would scrub my skin raw it hurt.
but it wasn't enough.
not clean enough to erase the wound he had created.

the only thoughts consuming me as i scrubbed and scrubbed were why had i ever let him.
why didn't i scream,
shove,
run even when i was miles from home.

why didn't i stop him.

i blamed myself for it all.

but why would i blame myself when it was made clear i had never wanted it to happen.

but again,
why wouldn't i blame myself when i could've done more for it to stop.

was i scared?

fuck i was terrified.
i had played scenarios in my head of what would happen if i had fought.

it would have only been worse.
bruises on my wrists or legs where he would've held me down after trying to run and shove him off.
or marks in the shape of his hand covering my neck or mouth,
from when i had screamed and yelled with everything i could for him to stop.

i died.

it took so long to recover.
to no longer blame myself.

my lover poetsWhere stories live. Discover now