I wanted to cut myself today. Thinking of you sliding your fingers inside me, violating my body gives me nightmares. No one imagines getting sexually assaulted on the first date.

It’s not something I openly talk about you know? It’s not something I’m proud of. The shame follows me in every relationship I’ve been in, every word that leaves my lips, any shimmer of hope is gone.

I have to throw out my favorite blush pink sun dress now. It’s stained with memories of your vile smirk as I slapped you hands away from me, the feeling of pure disgust filling my guts. I could puke at the very thought.

This isn’t something I can tell my boyfriend, poor guy. The last thing I want him to find out, is how fucked up his girlfriend is. How I get nightmares from the various traumatic experiences I suffered throughout my adulthood.

The gang rape my “friend” organized because the guy she liked wanted me instead. My first boyfriend raping me at gunpoint while also selling me off for his drug habit. The “nice guy” I met on Tinder who pinned me down on the ground, his carpet scraping my skin raw. My ex boyfriend who had this weird kink of encouraging me to drink myself unconscious so he could have sex with my lifeless body before locking me in a dog kennel.

The list goes on.

Dare I say more?

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