the bridge
don't touch me again. get your tiny, sweaty hands off of me
i want your Axe body spray smell mixed with B.O. out of my nose
i can never go to the park again
not after what happened on the bridge
you thought you owned me
i let you think that
my vision's blurred
i'm not the thirteen year old girl you raped on that bridge anymore
being broken isn't beautiful
can poets stop romanticizing our pain, like i stopped romanticizing that bridge
the willow trees caressing the railings, like you caressed my thigh
the wind pushing my hair back, like you pushed me down
the water rippling under the bridge, almost as loud as me screaming no
you aren't who they think you are
the bridge isn't what they think it is