Sometimes it comes at night. Or first thing in the morning. After I drink tea. Or have sex.

Once it was after the man I loved told me he’d never leave. Then once again when he left anyway.

Often it happens on great days. Gloomy days. Hard days. Just like every other day, days.


But most of the time it just doesn’t; happen, that is. Most of the time I am just like any other 19 year old university studnt. Living the dream. In central londom, studying english, seeing art, being free, adventerous, spontaneous, loved. Sometimes I even go to a pub for some fish and chips. That’s a british thing, you know. 


Sometimes I get a pint at the pub. Sometimes I go for 5. Sometimes I get drunk so many days in a row that I wonder if I can ever stop. Sometimes I rub my hands over the faint bumps on the inside of my elbow and crave more. That makes me think of blind people. Brail. They read from bumps. What would my arms say? Would they tell the story of the girl who sinnned and lied and hated and raped and killed. Would they tell the story of the poor little rich girl from the subarbs. 


Once I got really drunk. It was the day after the priest raped me. I did heroin again after that. 

The first pint was to wash the memories of the little girl I left to die. That was the week after he put a gun in my mouth.

The second, for the baby that I beat to death. The baby he forced inside of 11 year old me. 

The third for the man whose repuation I ruined; and his forgiveness that I groveled for. Because I dared to tell the truth.

The fourth was for the girl naive enough to follow me. Because I was naive enough to follow another.

The fifth was for me. Because I fucking hate that I love myself.


Often I feel like a victim. Other days I feel like a monster. Most days, I feel fucking angry.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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