It’s been 10 months and today someone said that I might have to see you again and I felt the panic race through my body. It’s been 10 months and any time someone even says the word “penis” I think of you, and all of the things we did that I did not want, some maybe you didn't even want, for the sake of “love.” It’s been 10 months and my knees break at the sound of your name, goosebumps shoot my body, and my hands convulse. It’s been 10 months and I’ve taken up drinking on school nights until my head feels dizzy and I can no longer remember the way your sweet nothings felt on my skin. It’s been 10 months and I’ve stopped dragging my feet through the mud, but my brain has not cleared, and there will never come a day that I am not afraid I might see you again. It’s been 10 months and my thoughts on love, and sexuality, and what is and is not okay to do in the name of “love” will never be the same, and I guess that’s okay but it really just feels like it’s not. It’s been 10 months and my heart may never stop sinking at the sound of your name. It’s been 10 months and my nerves may always electrify my skin when someone mentions how much you’re accomplishing. It’s been 10 months and I am having a panic attack because I may have to see you, the man who took chunks of my body away from me and threw them out with garbage. It’s been 10 months and no one, not even me, understands why what you did still has this affect on me. It’s been 10 months and it will take 10,000 more 10 months for me to hear your name and not feel pain.
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