8.8.18 | I don't want to hear his name
His name falls out of her mouth with ease, five letters slipping out to wrap around my neck and strangle me.
It's been one year exact, but the ghost just won't leave.
I want to cry and scream and storm out and be as dramatic as I want, yet never am.
"You don't consider him a friend?"
Why would I be friend with someone who shoved themselves inside me on a cold November night? Who helped themselves inside where they weren't invited; who I thought nearly ripped my underwear from force alone; who I feared much worse from; who I still have nightmares about.
"Friends" is the last thing I would consider us. I wish I could say this.
Instead, I look down at my plate, resist the urge to throw it, and answer her question while sharpening my rusty tongue-- just like I always do.
It's been one year exact, but the ghost just won't leave.
I want to cry and scream and storm out and be as dramatic as I want, yet never am.
"You don't consider him a friend?"
Why would I be friend with someone who shoved themselves inside me on a cold November night? Who helped themselves inside where they weren't invited; who I thought nearly ripped my underwear from force alone; who I feared much worse from; who I still have nightmares about.
"Friends" is the last thing I would consider us. I wish I could say this.
Instead, I look down at my plate, resist the urge to throw it, and answer her question while sharpening my rusty tongue-- just like I always do.
Comments
Post a Comment