'Thud', pushing the door open,
I storm into my house.
Running, trembling.
As fast as I could,
I'm shivering, babbling.

I try. I try to wash off.
I try to wash off the stains.
The stains of his failed attempts.
Off my skin so bare.

The stains won't go.
No matter how much I try.
How could he touch me?!
With disgust, I cry.

I try. I try to wash off.
I try to wash off the touch.
The touch of his hand.
With rescue marks, I stand.

It almost felt like
his fingers running on my bare back.
I wash. I scrape
As hard as I can.

I try. I try to scrape off.
I try to scrape off my skin.
For it smells like him.
His lust, it bleeds.
His possession, it screams.

I collapse, burying my head
In the knees,
The shower water running,
I see the blood getting thin,
Water getting pink,
Counting my sins,
' Could he be still alive?', I'm thinking.
The knife washed in his blood,
now stands clean.

Poetry Slam: 
This poem is about: 
Our world


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