You cannot eradicate a man's nature with a categorization system. You cannot make violence come out of a killer with a label, and you definitely cannot make someone forget that they were sexually assaulted tattooing them a heart symbol.

It is wonderfully stupid.

I can accept that feminine pads that attach to the skin, or genital muzzles for patients with an STD are quite useful, but a label for being raped? Please! It's like giving you a direct ticket to the train of hypocrite compassion where everyone would pat you on the back after asking permission to touch you, and if you accidentally collide with someone, they are arrested while there's an investigating to find out whether the collision was intentional or not.

They profaned my body! My ideals! My dreams! They shattered my soul, and the only thing I receive is a candy of pure pity! I cannot accept it, is it so difficult to understand? I cannot go out as if nothing happened, letting everyone see what he saw. It was not my body anymore, it was what he took. And until I can recover it again, I would not accept to wear a heart tag on my shoulder.

Clothing was allowed for certain trades, and professions, such as in hospitals or for firemen; but there were some exceptions in society that merited their use without any punishment, and I was the victim of one of them.

On my way down this same route to my home, 3 days ago, a man without a pervert or rapist tag dragged me to a car, and raped me. His artificial skin had been manipulated after fleeing from prison.

So here I am, walking the walk of shame in front of these hypocrites after having picked up the pieces of my being. The nausea torments me because of the anger that boils inside. It is impossible to endure this much for a long time.

Seeing the door of my home feels more like suffering. It is the escape that I had avoided, and in the end, I found against my will.

The eyes still lay on me, and I turn to face each one of them one last time.

This ideal was the guideline to be yourself, to be transparent to the world, and to learn to live with yourself in a contract of honesty. But it is not them who are showing their pain or accepting that they are not really sheeps, but hyenas, jackals eagering for criticism. It's me, with my head held high while the soft fabric embraces my body giving me the only honest consolation there is.

They cause me repulsion.

I can assure that there is more truth in my fingers, in my hair, and in every cell under this artificial skin than there is in all of them. My body throbs for the truth, for justice, for the real ideal. I emanate everything they want, and pretend to be. And I am the one wearing underwears.