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How do I come to terms with the fact that a man did not just shove himself into me? He did so much more. He shoved hatred into the deepest part of what is left of a broken soul. Four months later and every breath I take rattles. I pray that each breath will become the last but it never does. I am forced into a life I am not ready to live. Before he raped me I was someone. I felt like no matter what I was of some microscopic value. I hardly had my life figured out but now everything is fucked up for sure this time. He gets to go on and live a life free of panic attacks and suicidal thoughts. He gets to feel comfortable around his family. He gets to feel like someone believes him. I am made to feel like a fucking manic wreck which is exactly what I've come to be. I did not ask for this. I did not ask to bay at the moon with my soul shattering at my feet as if the sky could fix my sorrow. I did not ask to watch my nails bleed as I puncture the dirt with my fragile fingers searching for my normality. Liquor slides down my throat so smooth I could almost taste my freedom but it's sad when liquor is the only time I'm free. Only I'm not. I am a prisoner to his face. His spiked hair slicked up. I'd love to spit in his face only I'd never have the courage. A man broke me which is something I never wanted to say again. Only this time I think no man will ever have the chance to do so again. You see when he entered me that night my whole perspective changed. I no longer long for the sun to be against a diamond that compliments my finger. I no longer wonder what the kicks of my child will feel like in my womb. At this rate there is no point of me having a womb. I am no longer a woman. I am a statistic. Every 98 seconds a soul is shattered beyond belief. Only six out of a thousand of these monsters will sink behind the bars they so belong in. My heart screams for the me I was before my vagina repulsed me. My heart longs for the time I loved freely. My life is a movie. It's a horror film and I am the star. I am a monster fighting a monster. One out of every six women has been the victim of an attempted or a completed fucking rape. That is one too many. We are taught to “cover up” or “stop asking for it” when in reality if my nipple was a friend to the breeze no man should ever touch me without my consent. So many rapes go unreported because we are viewed as sluts who beg for a dick to be launched inside us against our will. A mini skirt is cause for a touch or a feel. When in reality, if I strip down to nothing with every intent of sleeping with a man, the minute I say no that is exactly what I mean. The night of my rape I said no a million times but those no's where silenced by the sound of my cries. When did he stop? When he was finished. When he was pleasured. Not once did he stop and think that what he was doing was the most vile thing any human could possibly do to another. My life is over. And I won't rest until the system evens the score.