I'll wake up with the memory still staining my body.

I'll be reminded that men are stronger than me.

I'll never even see my male family members the same.

What if they'd violated a woman? Would they admist to it, or chalk it up to sowing wild oats?

What if my mom had been violated? Would she admit to it or say,"Ce la vie"?

I'll never see my future in color the way I use to.

I'll have a socially acceptable mask in public but bottle my tears when I'm alone.

I'll always remember my back-stabbing friends who inflicted their secondary wounds on me.

I doesn't matter what I do to myself, the memory/trauma will poison my vagina whenever I have a sexual thought.

He's always inside of me, and I can't wash him out.

I can't erase him from my system.

There's no douche strong enough to wash him down the toilet and into the sewers where he belongs.

No matter what my "friends" said, I can't ever see him as a decent person.

He became a different person the moment he decided that I wasn't allowed to say no.

I see and think of him as a rapist and nothing more.

Not a former friend who lent me money for a movie when I was short.

Not a vulnerable person when he talked about his son in Iran.

Not a frustrated man who hated being taunted about his sexual frustration.

Not a lonely person on Christmas morning with no one to cuddle with and chase away his loneliness.

A TRAITOR WHO DISREGARDED A FRIENDSHIP BECAUSE HE SAID HE WAS HORNY.