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Monday, October 11, 2010


I hate remembering. I hate feeling like, if I had just stayed away from him, if I had just taken the sexual harassment as a warning, maybe it wouldn't have happened.

Maybe if I had called the police, he would be suffering like I want him to.

I remember the sound of the truck doors locking. the little secluded place in the desert where no one could hear or see me. The clothes I can't stand to wear.

The screaming. God, the screaming. Not him, me. And when I screamed too loud or too long, the choking. The ripping of tights, that SMELL.

I hate remembering. God, please let me starve away all my memories.

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