I’m high on the stool in my parent’s kitchen – the kitchen I called mine while I grew up – and mom is making my favorite dinner. She says she can always tell when I’m high (she can’t). My comforter here is white and it fully envelops me as I try to sleep. My shelves have old pictures and soccer trophies on them. My closet is empty; mom told me I could keep extra clothes here, but I didn’t want to leave anything at home.
He violates me again each time I come back, and I feel the childhood trauma I suffered at the hands of girls who still don’t know what they’ve done or how they’ve changed me. It chokes me as I drive in. It sits deep in my stomach. I’m heavy as I walk up the front steps… an overwhelming weight that can only be evoked by the dense pain of my teenage years.
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