I was cold, alone, and with a sore heart
when he came along, offering refuge
as a platonic companion, no more,
until the first sudden dusk, where
he abused my delicacy as an excuse
to fulfill tasteless desires, with blatant
disregard for my fragility. My skin,
set on fire, recoiled from his reach
and I hoped my adverse answer was enough
to make it stop. It didn't stop. He used
night as an advantage, full of liquid courage
for him, poor choices for me. On my skin,
still blazing each morning after every "no,"
my painted happiness was smeared from tears.
YOU ARE READING
Brain Dump
PoetryIf I write a poem, it goes here. A collection of thoughts, dreams, fears, and whatever else I see in my brain. TW: mentions of sexual assault, suicide, depression, anxiety, self harm
