"she was looking to hug the moon, cause he was the only one without hands"

well, he made it, and that's all that she was really asking for in the beginning. it was hard at first, the science of moving one leg in front of the other. there wasn't alot of time for that now, though, at the end of everything, when all that mattered to her were those sounds. to the left, the cloth they had boughten together slightly swaying with the indian summer breeze, and beyong that jailhouse rugrats fighting over wild turkey. in front, in her future, the blades of a fan chasing each other almost as fast as she was chasing it. to the right, a hallway that lead to the rest of the house, thumps, thuds of duds drooling on a saturday night, and behind her, the wall touching someone else's wall, was the lust she hadn't felt in weeks, hell with every new roar she was beginning to think maybe she had never felt that. out of body, out of mind, out. of. heart. sex. these sounds making a full life from a dozen half ones. where was she supposed to start, at the end, at the end?

my hair can almost fit back into a pony tail now, i've gained a bit of weight and i'm desperately trying to steer this winter away from last. but the ground seems to give when i take a step, and my body is growing older, the air seems thicker, harder to swallow, and even harder to exhale. "it'd be nice just to take care of something", she thought, and someone is what she meant. soundcloud, tell it everything you can't say.

i am a disgusting thing, a contradiction, from birth, to then, and back to my rebirth
i was used, i was used over and over, and then i used, like they said i would
i laughed along with punks in leather jackets about the girl in the room
the girl laying there half conscious that they just gang banged
the girl laying there, wiping herself clean, trying not to cry, trying herself to laugh
the pit of my stomach gnaws it'self alive for the moment she steps out of the room
her clothes fitting a little looser, her face a little more worn
 i know the look, the one i'm about to give, that i too have been given
"i've been there, you disgusting thing"
we're sisters, and I may have helped skin you alive
and i may not know your name
but when i get home I will shower, i'll light the candle, i'll call my best friend only to stay silent
the heavy buzz of angry fists laying on the line, until i give up, and ask HIM how he is
right
along
with
you
and i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry
there is no excuse, i should have been there, i should have ran in that room
and pissed on the jellies to stop the sting, but i couldn't, i stayed put
my feet tied to the ground, screwed in even, like a christmas tree, leaking life into a bowl
i couldn't move, i drank my beer, and i pretended to care about Guns and Roses
that was years ago, yes, and here i am trying to piece together how i let it happen
and it wasn't just you
it was taylor, the fat girl with the pizza, sarah, megan, robyn, ashley, the junkie who died a week later, what was her name? it was my co-worker, the one who didn't get out that much so i said, "come with me, I'll show you a good time", it was callie, and my best friend
I fell asleep when I was thirteen years old, put on a suit of armor, crawled inside of a peach and slept
I fell asleep right there on the matress where my second offense happened,
the one that bust me open, and i oozed, and i crawled out of my own ooze,
my hands covered and fingering
the matress, a cave wall, dark figures of a tale that no one,
aside from me, and him, the ARTISTS, will ever be able to decipher,
his lackey threw that mattress in the dumpster in the ally of the apartment building
and that's where i've slept
and that's where i woke up
two years ago
when patty, shared her story
the story that lead her to razors and hostpital beds,
a story where the lead role was the man i had slept next to every night,
the man i feared, banged wrists for, made pork chops for, swallowed cum for
a man i had denied capable of this, though aborted the child, because of his hands
we walked amongst the abandon buildings of an old factory, the beams still high, but the insides gutted
the sunset and we watched the shadows of the empty skeletons disappear
like we had watched ourselves, so many times before
that was two years ago,
maybe even more, and i'm sure if whiskey wasn't my best friend i'd be able to decipher,
what have i done? i don't laugh anymore but have i unhinged my jaw wide enough?
what can i do, how can i think, breath, go on knowing that a girl is raped every three minutes?
and that's just IN THE UNITED STATES
and those are JUST THE CASES THAT ARE REPORTED
and maybe if wasn't for the disgusting things like me, more people would report
maybe if Seattle would stop wasting our tax dollars on fucking up our metro system
we would more funding for women's support groups, which they offer... EVERY SIX MONTHS,
children's safety outreach programs, education classes for men on HOW TO BE MEN,
quality rape kits and counseling
PERHAPS IF PEOPLE STARTED TALKING
perhaps if i hadn't laughed, but i did, i laughed just like i was laughed at
maybe if i could just find one.
 fucking.
 thing.
 to.
blame.
 for.
our.
 pain.

But there isn't any room for blame, is there?
i'm done laughing, i'm somewhere inbetween rage and tears
i'm praying for forgiveness, and a collaboration, a revenge, a retreat, a release,
these are our daughters, sisters, mothers, aunts, nieces, friends, enemies, roommates
and ourselves, our own bodies
maybe if we can't prevent,
we can prevail