Apologies to anyone here named Kevin. This one was directed at one Kevin in particular, not you.
Dear Kevin,
You are the dust and mildew
pressed between yellowed pages
of a book I'll never open again,
a memory trapped in the smallest
corners of my mind.
I was just a child,
fragile as a matchstick,
I burned when you struck me,
cried when you fucked me,
Was it good for you?
Or did you cry for me too?
Just a satisfier
of your sick desire,
I was too young to know
you were a fucking liar.
I still burn,
but now I’ve learned
to leave my ghosts behind,
clear them from my mind,
turn them into words on a page;
now that I'm of age
you wouldn't want me
anymore, anyway,
you sick fuck,
no longer the terror-struck
twelve-year-old girl
in your pickup truck.
So this is my letter,
to you, but not for you,
just for me, to remind myself
of the strength I found
by surviving you.
Never yours,
Never was,
Becky
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