sometimes I feel like I should hate you;
I should spit on you and revile you for
ruining my innocence and touching the
silent curves of my young body and
kissing the plump roundness of my
youth.

sometimes I lay in my bed and I want to vomit the memories out.
I want to get rid of the feeling of your coarse hands, I want to get
rid of the fear and the hatred and your voice asking me to do things
I was so naive of.

(I want my purity back--give it back)

I remember your hands down my shirt,
your fingers fumbling clumsily, your lips
on my breasts, your hands groping at
the place I had yet to understand.

in the back of my throat I feel the
noise of my suppressed screams
and in the soles of my feet I feel
the suppressed urge to run and
run until my legs give out under
me and I can run away from those
quiet nights when I toss and turn,
unable to sleep, afraid that if I
close my eyes I will be tormented
by your hands, coarse and unrefined.

I am not a virgin.
my mind has been raped.