Two weeks have elapsed since my desolation
and yet I still cannot eradicate his voice from my mind
or expel his fingerprints from my skin.
It's now imperative to shower prolonged periods of time
to elicit a sufficient amount of soap
to cleanse my thighs of that night's ghastly incursion.
A month has perished, much like my innocence.
I strove to construe the trauma to my best friend,
as if to alleviate my chest of the weight of the world.
My pathetic exertion to refute my "consent" that night,
my consent has never come in the form "no" .
It's been a year, signifying the reversion of summer.
I am ridiculed for my attire of hoodies and sweatpants.
I remain adamant to desist and divulge my skin.
Nevermore will I sanction it to allure someone enough
to misinterpret it as in invitation to my body.
I am not a fatality in the aftermath of a hurricane,
I am simply another number, just another statistic.
I am one of the over 300,000 annual rape victims.
Today he promised to asphyxiate me if I exposed him
but I already struggle for air, reliving the nightmare.
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