her

i sleep and

sleep, afraid

of my conscious

thoughts.

the whispers

my mind sends are

visceral. the bruises

on my body are ephemeral,

but they seem to be carved

there for eternity.

when my mother

asks if i am okay,

i cannot answer.

when the doctor

asks if i'm okay,

i nod.

when the therapist

asks if i'm okay,

i cannot answer. 

all that comes out

are pieces of words,

never quite put together

properly.

south stands behind the

glass window. he is forbidden

from coming in.

you okay? he signs with

his fingers.

i shake my head.

because i want to get

a divorce from this body.

it is filthy; covered with a

psychotic boy's hands.

-

him

if i had walked her

home, she wouldn't

have gotten hurt.

remorse is eating me

up and i want to kill it,

because it is right.

i ask her if she is okay,

and i see the carcass of

the remains of a beautiful

girl.

i visit everyday, but do not

go in. the doctor suggested

that she doesn't interact with

anyone, especially not with a boy.

i stare at the empty space next

to me in photography class,

the space where a girl with blank

eyes and i met.

the teacher asks, "where's rosemary?"

and i say, "hospital."

another boy says, "i heard she got raped."

i tense up.

"was it you?" he looks at me.

and a twisted smile appears,

"i mean, we all know she hated

you. so obviously, you forced her

to have sex with you."

"shut up. we're friends."

"but you're, well, i mean—" and he

touches his face lightly.

"what?" i say, seeing too

much red before me. "black? 

because i'm black, i raped her?"

and his smile disappears,

the colors in front of me are melting

into a solid grey with white spots.

"yeah," he confirms.

i think one of the things i will

never ever regret, is punching him

so hard my hand would bruise

for a week.