Its been a year since I've dried the tears
of my friend
She was raped in an upstairs bathroom.
She got drunk on the night, so without a fight
She followed him over
To the stairs, he was sober
Mind blurry, chest heaving,
Wrists gripped all too tight,
She remembers, though vaguely
That horrible night
And it's not just her, who lived with a secret
Of rough hands and self-deprecation
She was living a lie, oh I'm fine
Which then leads to crying at three forty-two
Because what do you when it hurts where it shouldn't?
This poem I write for my friend
She fights, and she fights for those without words
Let her be heard

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