Little Person

Trigger Warning: This post contains an extensive discussion of rape.

Soap dispenser for your mind, self, to wash out all the lies.

You scrub the atoms of your brain, fingers bleeding from the bleach. Nothing works. It will not go. His shame weights your lungs with stones.

You are okay; you do not remember.

Such a pity others suffer this. You were never touched.

You are little person frozen, little person scream. Little person stuck in taller-person-cage. Maybe if you hide in sud-filled sink, clean yourself like dishes, you will scrub away his handprints like you scrubbed away his face.

No, self says, no, no.

Tell me, self with shattered rib cage, does it hurt to breathe?

Fine, you are fine. You do not remember.

Little self, admit, if you speak it’s yours. Little self, admit, you did not want it, do not want it.

Your atoms stink of him, all your molecules. No soap dispenser big enough.

No oxygen.

Little person hands over big person ears.

Little person, rage. Little person, cry.

Little person, say.

You remember.

You are not his hands, not his crime. You are not his stolen thing, self. You are not evicted from this body-yours. This memory not your prison sentence—not your stain.

Little person, safe, now.

Little person, free.




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