Or maybe they're just flashbacks.
Maybe they're just what I thought I wanted to do, but didn't.
I remember kicking his body away from mine when he was on top of me. I was too weak to say anything else than a "No". I remember having a phone on my face at a time, on my body, on my shame.
I was too weak to do more than just cover my face with my hands. I might be paranoid but I sometimes feel like men in the street recognize me, from somewhere... maybe there.
It must be my own self-pity creating the image of him stopping when I asked him to.
It must be that, otherwise I wouldn't have the clear memory of me crying in the shower, cleaning up the remaining of his selfish violence on my chest, going back to the comforting arms of his, he who couldn't see what was wrong, kissed my forehead and cuddled me night through up until his sister came back home, crying, drunk, just like me only a few hours ago. I could've been her. She could've been me. She couldn't talk and pure tears would drop non-stop down her face. I was aware I had to leave, but I was sore and ashamed, and damped in the remnant thought that all I wanted was to be with the guy I had gotten drunk for the night before.
Everyone left. I had to choose between the best worst. Taxi driver/coworker I didn't know.
Months after, I found out we had the same date of birth.
And all I could think of, was how I had hurt myself, by letting him hurt me.
Maybe they're just what I thought I wanted to do, but didn't.
I remember kicking his body away from mine when he was on top of me. I was too weak to say anything else than a "No". I remember having a phone on my face at a time, on my body, on my shame.
I was too weak to do more than just cover my face with my hands. I might be paranoid but I sometimes feel like men in the street recognize me, from somewhere... maybe there.
It must be my own self-pity creating the image of him stopping when I asked him to.
It must be that, otherwise I wouldn't have the clear memory of me crying in the shower, cleaning up the remaining of his selfish violence on my chest, going back to the comforting arms of his, he who couldn't see what was wrong, kissed my forehead and cuddled me night through up until his sister came back home, crying, drunk, just like me only a few hours ago. I could've been her. She could've been me. She couldn't talk and pure tears would drop non-stop down her face. I was aware I had to leave, but I was sore and ashamed, and damped in the remnant thought that all I wanted was to be with the guy I had gotten drunk for the night before.
Everyone left. I had to choose between the best worst. Taxi driver/coworker I didn't know.
Months after, I found out we had the same date of birth.
And all I could think of, was how I had hurt myself, by letting him hurt me.
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