the bridge

don't touch me again. get your tiny, sweaty hands off of me

i want your Axe body spray smell mixed with B.O. out of my nose

i can never go to the park again

not after what happened on the bridge

you thought you owned me

i let you think that

my vision's blurred

i'm not the thirteen year old girl you raped on that bridge anymore

being broken isn't beautiful

can poets stop romanticizing our pain, like i stopped romanticizing that bridge

the willow trees caressing the railings, like you caressed my thigh

the wind pushing my hair back, like you pushed me down

the water rippling under the bridge, almost as loud as me screaming no

you aren't who they think you are

the bridge isn't what they think it is

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741