Infection

It is
bile in my throat, ants on my skin,
thinking my skin is caked with dirt, with germs, with filth;

it is
clenched fists pounding into my thighs
screaming why why why how could this happen is there
no god in this world?

It is
screaming into my pillow, screaming no no no
don't do it why did you do it?

It is
going home and scrubbing every inch of my skin once
twice three times, emerging red raw and still
dirty dirty dirty

and knowing I am damaged goods, impure,
a soul that has been chewed and spat out and slowly rotted away.

It is
no longer knowing the meaning of the word no,
and tossing and turning at night, waking up
with sleep-encrusted eyes because I cried too much.

It is
the feeling of my chest ripping apart even now
as I remember how there's nowhere you haven't
touched on me now.

I'm all
yours, always yours.

Shortened version of Intimately Stained written by me.