Untitled #5/14/22

Don’t fucking tell me that I should forgive and forget. Don’t fucking insinuate that my pain is simple enough and forgotten. Don’t make me adjust to your world so that you can live your life with more comfort and joy.

Don’t minimize all that I have been through and all thatI have become.

And when I tell you this kindly, the least you can do is respond. The least you can do is take back your offense.

Don’t ask me about what happened. Don’t cushion it with “only if you feel comfortable.”

Because I won’t, I won’t ever feel comfortable reliving my experiences for your grotesque intrigue so you can cast my trauma into images in your head. I won’t ever feel comfortable holding my breath and wondering if the response I receive will set me back, will force me to question if did go through what I went through, if I am making something out of nothing at all, if my panic attacks my insomnia my depression my rising alcohol abuse my lack of memory my slow carrying out of a plan to leave are dramatizations and nothing else.

Stop asking to hear more of it on your own agenda, why can’t you understand I will tell you more when I want to and if I choose to,

Because the moment you ask me to tell me more I can’t help but feel as though all that I am will be linked to the part of my life that represents me least of all. When you think of me you will see a shattered and battered girl who suffers and has suffered. I want you to see me for everything I was and still am before all that ever occurred.

When I feel comfortable I will tell you. What I went through

it was a dark stamp imprinted on my forehead that now is nearly gone but that I sometimes see, still there, clear in its black and disgusting inkiness, in the corner of my eye through a passing reflection.

But it is only that, a stamp that was. But when you ask to hear more, it feels as though it never disappeared.

I’m not here for your entertainment value.