Laying next to him screaming voices inside my head untamed but why and so loud. I’d share but the feeling of being held is not there. Not with him. Follow motions and do dead affection.

Take me with the wailing sirens back not forward. Fix forever but never finish fixing. Die me till end but stay with me in that space. Hold the clock of time frozen there. Protect my loved ones from liking the dwell in that hollow which I love.

Believe me whole heartedly because I don’t. Give me that breath of alcohol that is pure and empty sterile clean like my first time piercing of my soul. I want you to know because I need to know. Hold my hand and see what I am too ashamed to look at.

Something so emotionless irreligious physically disgusting and raw that should have no meaning or weight. Unrighteous to describe in words pitiful for pointless but I liked it and it’s why I remember the details to repeat with sensation, smell and feeling but without image. That, I didn’t like the look in the first place.

Sound was silent but please renew that forsaken stillness every time with soft delicate beauty of yours not them but just the right amount so to stay and not burst the bubble of hollow. Addictive pull to suffering that I crave.

The descriptions are simple and dumb to die for not saying. Just take me back there to the clinic with the sterile scent of fear and humiliate me to death. It’s okay, I won’t be looking, I’m too angry for that. Please wake me when I’m fixed and I promise to be hurt enough to scream loudly then.

Stay and don’t let go of my hand. Know that I can hold yours too but now when you touch me inside, I’m a little girl of three. With the childlike unstoppable curious desire of entering through hell and dancing inside a neck deep puddle of mud in the midst of a storm.

Did she think about it? if she was real, the soundless mark, the impression she’d leave? But why? What did she want of a little girl’s vagina? Or was it the trickery? The muteness of that moment when the ireaction in my face is accentuated and she knows she got me.

Why didn’t my father notice my tights being pulled up quickly when he walked in? Why didn’t he listen to the tight lipped burning awareness in my body in the backseat of his car ride back? The small legs that now thought they were long and adult like they knew and my core that felt the bumps on the road. Why did he threaten me with therapy? When that didn’t stop the screaming, why was he afraid and threatened by it? Why would he beat me fixed to quiet? Why did I promise to remember to not forget how to scream again? But why was I screaming?

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