If I try really hard, I will be able to recall the exact date, day and minute that he touched me and left the imprints of his unsavory lust on my innocent flesh. I will be able to recall the way and places that he touched me, I would be able to hear the trembling whispers that left my mouth, “no… please don’t.. no…”, I would be able to recall how his hands felt inside my pants and how his kisses hurt my lips. I would be able to recreate that self-hate and disgust that I felt every time that his breath condensed on my skin announcing his closeness to me. I wanted to peel off my skin and free my bone from such disgusting flesh that hangs loosely around it. It was the connection you see; My skin was what bound me to him. Skin. It soon became synonymous with something filthy, his skin, my skin… Skin in general. The thought of two skins coming together disgusted me, it made me wanna puke. And perhaps that’s why I started cutting it. I wanted it to burst open and throw up its very essence- blood. I remember watching my blood ooze out and flow over my skin before finally hitting the ground. It fascinated me.
I didn’t want to die but I didn’t want to live either. But time and again I saw myself tumbling towards my grave helplessly, yet not consciously. Suicide is never a decision. It’s not like you kill yourself; you are already dying each day, and someday you just die enough. Suicide is a process, you are helplessly caught in it. there’s no getting off. Perhaps that is why I chose to never board that train of memories which was bound to fall into a dead end. I don’t let my mind dive into those moments that I was forced to share with him. I instead let it fall softly into the soft arms of oblivion. I let it forget, I slay anything that can remind it of him, I have locked those moments in the corners of my mind inside a shelf called “forgotten assault”.