How many times am I going to have to tell you, “I was raped,” or “I was almost killed” until it stops hurting like the embedding of snaggletoothed crucifix nails,
until you pry apart the bear trap mandibles of these ossified ribs and pluck him out of me like a tumor?
How many more full moons must I waste bleeding, rehashing those disgusting details like vomit from stomach bugs reacquainting itself with the lining of my throat?
How much longer must I spin in place before my feet form crop circles, before I burrow in deep enough to find middle earth in a coffee cup?
How many times am I going to spend a twenty year old night alone, making bar code horizons out of white swan wrists peeking out from over crimson sleeves like sadistic hide and seek?
How many nights must I awaken chewing on his name, chewing on my cheek, sleeping by the doggy door because this raped skin is full of animalism and saliva?
How many mornings must I rise to another excruciating day, clinking wasted hours in my pale calla lily palms unfolding like a rosary bead cluster of painfully torn baby teeth?
How many more times am I going to trace myself back to the Fatherlands of his hands gripping my shoulderblade, sinking in imprints like the silhouettes of wet cement?
How many more days until I get to die of natural causes?
How many times am I going to have to tell you
I was raped?