There were drugs in my system. I remember laying in his bed—paralyzed by fear, confusion, and the weight of something I didn’t consent to. My eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, detached from what was happening to my body. His hands were everywhere.
While the memory plays on repeat, my mind is drowning. I couldn’t escape, not then—and sometimes, not even now. Afterward, his scent lingered on my skin like a scar I didn’t ask for. I scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to wash it away, hoping to erase something that I didn’t consent to in the first place.
It’s heavy on my chest even now, but I smile, I move on, I speak like everything is normal—because that’s what survivors are taught to do. But inside, there’s a storm that never fully settles. The weight of the trauma, and the silence that lingers long after.
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