Unmentionable

Pain.

Shame.

Fear.

Tears.

I feel empty.

A horrible, vacuous, emptiness as I ask the inevitable question:

Why me?

Why did he have to do this to me? I love him, loved him.

Or thought I did, and knew he loved me.

Or thought he must.

But love isn’t lust.

That’s all he saw. Girl,

Twenty-four,

just another score

on his bedroom door.

An object of desire

to be fucked by the fire,

passion burning hot,

Whether she wants it or not.

I can no longer sleep, now I

sit here and weep,

Trying desperately to shape

that dreadful word:

Rape.