my body is not my body

when i’m held mouth wide open, blood oozing, dreading your extraction of part of my body. i’m only six. i’m not asleep. i never forgot.

i’m eighteen. adult, or so they say. part of my body breaks so more space is filled with you & all you carry. it hurts. in retrospect, it always hurt. it always will. Continue reading “‘my body is not my body’ by Nadia Gerassimenko” →