Toxicity Didn’t Kill Me

i remember

it looked
like a
smashed
strawberry

when the
gynecologist
pryed the
tampon
out of me.

I was a
20 year old

Raped
in my
childhood
bedroom

by a boy who
used “i love you”‘s
like a
trojan horse.

three days
later,
I didn’t
remember.

trauma does
that to you
[even though
for some,
sexual assault
is a punch-line
these days].

lying back
Stirruped feet,

i was just
as surprised
as the doctor

who gutted
the rotten
tissue-soaked
cotten from me.

they told me,

“you should
have been
dead of
toxic shock.”

they couldn’t
see it, but,
a part
of me
was dead.

He ended
up cheating
on me

because I
withheld sex
from him.
[after the fact]

“Boys will be boys,”

Right?

Cue: Crassness & Gary Jules, Mad World

The stripper
and the
old man have
deserted me.

being
desensitized to
walking past
3D models of
cut-scenes
in porn,

[I’d skip past]

APPARENTLY,
can ruin one
friendship.

the other
equates me
with either
exhaustion
of technological
onslaught,

or denied
weight of
immense guilt
from displaced
adulterous
sexual tension.
[but who’s
counting?]

to make
matters worse,

I just
bawled
my eyes out
about not
being able to
redeliver a
newspaper
to a 95-year old
bed-ridden man
across the country,

who just
needed it
to be happy
reading a
little dog
cartoon.