i'm writing and i know it because you told me that all it is
is sitting and bleeding out your words.
i'm watching them fall down my arms so i know i must be saying a lot lately
but the pain comes and swallows me up a little like the mouth of a cave
because i let it.  you told me that nothing hurts if i don't let it
but i'm putting myself in your hands and they're filling up with my words,
red and sticky and i hope you can help me.

you told me to write hard and clear about what hurts.
well you know what hurts?
let me put it to you bluntly:
i was raped when i was too drunk to sit up
and he was too sober to pass up,
me, this girl who grew rubber for legs and laughter until suddenly things weren't right.
what hurts is not remembering most of the night.
just the party from photos i must have taken,
just the couch where my boots were found the next day,
just the pain between my hips and the rawness on my chest and his face when he was feeling good and
my forehead was creased the way it does when i'm anxious.\
not any of this is okay but you told me to take what hurts and hurt it back.
so i'm saying to anyone who's been touched when they've tried to shy away,
or blacked out to the point of only remembering you went party-floor-bed and none of the in-between,
you didn't choose this.
you didn't ask for it.
you didn't see it coming.
it's not your fault.
don't even dare to call those intentions innocent
because you told me that's where all truly wicked things come from anyway.
stop believing that forgiving and forgetting is your safest home
just because it's pretty to think so;
don't ruin yourself because of expect things to smooth over like the sea.

and i'm sitting with that instead of pressing "ignore" on my phone
every time it comes up because my body still keeps the score;
there is no way to truly ignore
the dreams and nightmares that come at night, under in the murmuring sunlight,
in panicked breaths i fight to keep silent.

you told me courage is grace under pressure.
so when i'm asked what's wrong, i'm going to stop hiding
in the black shrouds, the funereal floral arrangements i've made for myself,
the part of me that died that didn't feel compelled
to look over my shoulder every time i left my room
or scan faces to make sure none i see are his.
i'm going to say that i am scared and that is going to be the bravest thing i could do.
there is nothing graceless about crying,
only in protecting the secrets that promise to pull you asunder.
you told me there is nothing else but now, neither yesterday and certainly no tomorrow.

you told me we're stronger in places we've broken.
well my soul was empty but i'm working again on filling it up
and my heart was yours but i'm stuffing it back to my own chest
my body was broken but i'm starting to sew its wounds
and embracing the ugliness of the thick black thread
because it shows me where i ripped
and where i made myself stronger.
i'm not asking anymore but telling you: i'm still here,
i'm still bright enough
to be burning and i am not going out any time soon.