I wrote this on November 10th, 2005.
Three Hundred and Thirty Seven Days
I am picturing him. He's laying next to me in the bed and I keep telling him to stop touching me. He won't. I tell him to leave and he turns, he calls me a self righteous hypocrite, he calls me a liar, tells me that I'm cruel and that I'm hurting him on purpose. I'm tired, and I tell him to leave. HE begins to cry again. I tell him to let go and sleep. He attacks. I tell him to hold on and leave. He breaks down. I sit up, and I say something final, "Pick one truth." He climbs back into bed. "I picked one," he says. "What?" "I love you." "Fine. Now let's sleep." He begins to touch me again, and I tell him to get the fuck out.
I am picturing him. He's pacing around the room. He's yelling, calling me a tease, calling me a hypocrite, calling me a slut. He wont' leave. I slap him in the face, and he hits me back. As I crawl to the bed he follows. Tells me we're no good for each other because we're both so fucked up. I tell him to go to sleep. He starts touching me again, and I let him.
I don't even make him wear a condom.
I am picturing him. He's cut his hair in the week since. He's following me, I think. He starts writing, calling. For months he won't leave me alone. I still don't cry rape. Not until I can't take it anymore. Not until I find out what he's done to me. I'm broken now, you see. Re-broken. Broken again. After three hundred and thirty seven days, I am still broken. I have fractures in the shape of his face. Cracks in my shell that will never heal.
I leak his name.
...originally posted here.