The day I tell my therapist about my rapes, it is raining. I am wearing a hoodie and more eyeliner than usual; when she asks why I seem upset, I dissociate and tell her a story about something I try hard to never think about.
I’ve got issues, I probably say. I don’t remember, I made a mistake, I have never told anyone, I don’t remember, looking for evidence of my own pain, how memory yanks me back into the basement, windowless, concrete floor, not wanting to be alone in the house.
I don’t have much to say besides I can’t breathe. I don’t talk about it. I stare at the Matisse print on the wall across from the couch where I pull two pillows into my chest.
The wild things I've been are shredding me like defeat doesn't slip past me,