some days i think
i was raped.
on those days,
try to make their presence known,
fighting their way into existence.
i lie in bed,
leaving to go eat
three more bowls of cereal.
more ice cream.
another large helping of spaghetti with sauce.
i try to convince myself feeling good again
isn't worth puking it all up.
it doesn't work.
i lie in bed, fat and bloated,
and feel some ghost's hands on me,
touching me in places that make
the little girl inside me scream...
i want to curl up in the corner in the warmth.
in safety i can never
seem to find.
i want to be safe, but some days
i play with my emotions,
triggering myself for something to feel
i can describe,
as opposed to feelings
(grey, mushy clouds)
softening my life.
i want some hard edges,
some bits of sharp metal in life to cut myself on.
not too deep,
just deep enough to feel
something other than
breaking my trust.