I didn’t really want to take
the "morning-after" pill.
They made me – parents, doctor.
It haunts me, still.
Being raped is enough,
when you are seventeen
and actually a virgin.
You are never clean
enough – not deep inside –
not after that.
To take control, you starve yourself,
but you still feel too fat –
and even thin feels wrong.
You turn to drink instead.
You take crap from useless blokes,
who insist on messing with your head.
You do boring office work,
pretend that you can cope –
which, of course, you don’t.
You’re dangerously low on hope.
You wonder why I wash
my hands until they bleed?
Why I "choose" the childless life?
Are my words uncomfortable for you to read?
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