Sometimes, the weight of what you did to me is too much.
Sometimes, I feel as if it wasn't enough.
To think,
if only you had been merciful
and killed me once you were done,
I wouldn't be lying here,
ruminating on my desire to finish the job myself.
I am so angry for what you took;
the rage grows more and more each day.
Even now, eleven years later,
I am still discovering the extent of what you've stolen,
and it's sickening.
You aren't here to pin me down,
yet I am still under your control.
That fateful June day, you didn't just brutalize my body—
you eviscerated my joy, my sense of security, and my dignity;
all of which can never be reproduced.
I may display a brave face,
but beneath my 'warrior's' mask
remains a dismal, pervasive truth:
I was too weak to physically fight you off in the moment,
and I am still too weak to fight you off in my head.
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