It's five o' clock. The trauma shook Opal. Her therapist told her to use coping skills whenever she had the memory or flashbacks. One love she forgot was writing. She'd write every day at 5:00 pm. Five is the time she had been raped by a serial rapist. It was frightening. She had the right to be traumatized.

She took out her old-fashioned composition book. She grabbed her pencil. At this time, computers weren't in every household. Her pen touched the paper. She wrote in beautiful cursive. She wrote, smoothly. Her writing had dark beauty. For the book, she decided to write poetry to express an inner feeling. A feeling which was like an inferno.

Your kisses
Were
Like knives

They stabbed
Me all
At once

You pressed
Me to
The bed

A demon began
To take my soul

I'm never safe
Anywhere
I'm not your
Last victim
And not your
First

I told the
Police they
Can't find you.
My heart feels
Sore and I can feel
Your hands
Every afternoon
At 5 o'clock.

I scream but
No one answers
Because we have
a cold case.
Once it was summer
Now it winters all that
Was then is gone. The
Seasons are changing
Without
Me
I'm still the same hurt
Girl.