The wind softly whispers my name,
The river quietly sings a counterpoint,
Rain gently brushes back my hair,
But the mud, the mud tries to suck me in...
I hear the fire crackling,
Voices at the top of the hill,
But here I lie in the mud,
Clothes torn, bleeding, cold and alone..
We had walked into the woods to 'talk'
He grabbed at me,
I turned away,
He called me 'a little whore'
Slow motion..
I yelled and slapped him,
He grabbed my shirt,
I pull away and stumble,
The sound of frabric ripping..
The world tilts..
