His filthy hands on me

I can’t feel anything on my skin except the dirty hands of a lustful evil man. I can’t look at my naked body in the shower without being reminded of how he undressed me so selfishly. I can’t step foot in familiar places without having intense recollections of him forcing me to enter an isolated area to take advantage of me and my unhealthy habit of people pleasing. As much as I scrub and scratch till my skin goes red, I can’t get his filthy touch off of my exploited body. 

My body remembers what my mind tries to forget, whether it’s when I look at my body in the mirror or when I remember how he took advantage of me. I trusted you with my heart, yet you only wanted my body. I tell myself it’s my fault because I didn’t stop you, I didn’t push you away enough when you were sticking your fingers in my underwear while my mind raced and I held my tears hoping you’d stop, I didn’t say no when the one time you asked for consent came. 

The walls where you trapped me against still tightens my chest, the rooms you left me in still makes me sick to my stomach, the clothes you removed and sexualized me in still sit in my closet, hidden from my view as I try to forget the feeling of the fabric detach itself from my skin as his hands replaced it.

Even now, after I have escaped his cursed presence, I still scrub my skin raw in the shower hoping one day I could get his touch off of me.