Trigger Warning: Rape.
10.
My mother told me,
lock your doors. Everyone
locks their doors in
the city. She never said,
watch your back
in the shower.
The water hadn't warmed,
and I was waiting. The dark
was soft,
but when he grabbed me
it contracted.
He gagged me with my own
washcloth.
Brought from home,
my initials,
embroidered by my Ma,
choked me.
It still smelled faintly
of home.
He pulled out my hair,
rammed my head
into the wall.
It's a dream, he said,
a dream come true.
He did not speak again
through his grunting. The hand
that pushed me to the floor
pressed against my neck.
I could not
breathe.
The water was cold,
everything hurt. He finished,
giving my head one last
shove. I'll kill you,
he whispered, if you tell.
No one
will believe you anyway,
he told me.
No one.
So don't even try.
YOU ARE READING
Bloom, Shifting
PoetryElliot. The name sits on my tongue, melting as if it were sugar. Elliot. I hold that sweet name in my mouth all the way home, mouthing it to the darkness. She moves to the city to learn how to write. She trades redwoods for skyscrapers and...
