Your friend is a Rapist Don’t touch my skin You can’t get in Serial Killer. Third time is a charm Dead Eyes. Tex Mex makes me want to throw up in my mouth. Buddha and Jesus had a talk with me They said, “ Forgive.” I did. A dream. I saw myself shaking your hand. But in real life I still die inside You broke more than my heart And I never even liked you. Because I can see right through your empty soul. Take what you want But remember it was never given. A dead, drunk rape Is not even good porn. Beer, vodka and broken glass Becky and her parents are out of town On the night before Jackie’s graduation. I washed all the blood off the sheets but I left without cleaning the house. And I didn’t know where to go. But I wasn’t lost. Just empty. That was the first time I experienced “robot mode.” Just turned fifteen. I hid the secret Except I did kick your car And trashed your locker And told your girlfriend who didn’t believe me And pushed you down that hill when I was drunk at another party But you still won. Every time you smiled at me I planned your murder. The outfit I would wear. The wig I would wear and the country where I’d hide. Your roommates were my friends. They’d let me in. Even if I went to prison It would be worth it I finally told a knight Because I had issues, especially when we took LSD. To my horror he told all my best friends. And when Lancelot punched your face in At that party My friends were there and they understood They shared my pain And it felt good To see your face beat in By someone that was bigger than you. No more nightmares. Now I don’t have to kill you anymore. So, have a wonderful life and be happy. And thank Jesus and Buddha too. (Written in 2008 in the midst of a nervous post partem 2 year depression. Every year, at the anniversary of the rape, I had some sort of break down) I created this art piece after writing the poem "Your Friend is a Rapist." I pulled most of it out of the trash can and used my old yearbook. Chad, on the bottom right, was a rapist too. He raped a friend of mine, but it's her story to tell, not mine. This is the glass over the other piece, shown above. It is a visual art therapy piece of my heart ripped into a million pieces. "Rip out my Heart and Hope to Die." People who rape, who use others and mentally and physically scar victims for their personal sexual or perverted gratification, have no understanding of the damage they inflict. It's lifelong. Sex is never the same. Intimacy is never the same. Trust is gone, forever. You live the rest of your days in "Fight or Flight." I do believe in karma, and it comes back tenfold.
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