V

[wpaudio url=”/audio/6_8/St.George.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″]

This is not a secret. No man has ever touched me. No man will ever kiss me, want me, fuck me, feel me up. It’s not that I’m religious. It’s not that I’m romantic. It’s not that uncle touched me. It’s panic. It’s deep in my gut. It’s a boy sitting beside me on the bus. It’s the man sitting next to me at the bar. It’s not that I am broken. It’s knowing that they can break me. Anytime I can be invaded. Every time I cross the street, I have to fear what lies within the shadow. It’s wishing for a gun. It’s not like anyone wants me. It’s not that I say I stop. It’s being the color of every wall that I lean my back against of. And I don’t think it’s because I’m ugly. It’s a choice and not a choice. It’s not that it’s a secret. It’s just something we don’t speak of.