A year a year a year.

TW SA

For a year it feels like it’s still happening. Maybe it’s a container issue. I mean, a year is just 365 of a made up concept. But somehow it matters. A year a year a year. A month did nothing, I didn’t even understand what i was going through for a month, I just blacked out and passed out as often as I could. A quarter is just corporate talk, a semester makes me feel like high school. So, a year. A year is what it takes. Can I be free after tomorrow?

I spoke so big about reporting before. How I would, how we should. But the truth is we’re told about dark alleys and bad men, we’re not told about dimly lit bedrooms and childhood friends. We’re not told about the feeling something weird happened, the bruises you’re not sure you wanted but maybe you just bruise easily, the night that sticks when countless others haven’t. And unless you’re surrounded by the rare people who can see what you don’t or the too many that survived what you will, by the time you get why it sticks it’s too late. The pictures you took of your own body got scrapped cause they reminded you of something you didn’t want to remember, the bedroom is moved out of and the conversation is deleted.

A year a year a year.
I’m ok now. My body is my own. I’m lost but I’ve been lost before and I’ll be found again. I’ve had the same amount of drinks this year that I had in a week back then. I can be alone in a room with a man I don’t know and keep my breath steady. I met the rare in the many and we cried and we smiled and we hugged. My body is my own. I’m ok now.

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