I know that you couldn't come.
And that's okay.
But telling my parents that.
And hearing the sigh.
And the fact that it's the night before.
And that we had to makes plans work for your schedule.
And then all of a sudden twist plans according to their schedule.
And already having anxiety.
And that feeling of the drug.
Took me back.
And I can't go to Sacramento.
I can't stay in the same neighbourhood.
That I was train raped.
Kind of.
And the kitchen.
When I came home from prostituting that weekend.
And I thought I was the same girl as before.
But I hid by the island.
And I bawled.

And I can see myself crying there.
And the living room.
With cocaine.

My bedroom.
With the sex.
And the depression.

The gazebo I stood on.
And punched myself.

When I stayed in bed for three days after the fbi.
The car crash.

I can't go.

And it would have been easier.
If he didn't fuck me over.

And I'm upset.
And he asks while in front of everyone.
So I don't want to talk.
And then he punishes me for being upset.
When I'm freaking out about these memories.

I need nurturing.
But he doesn't ever see that.

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