Anonymous Story: Untitled

I was just
15 when it happened
Or perhaps
just freshly
16
That’s the funny thing
about these type of things
You remember them
but you don’t quite.
I was so dumb
So naive
to have thought that
he was never going to hurt me.
I swerve around any thought of it
because I just want it
to be gone.
But it still haunts me
in the burn of all the places
where he marked me.
It was the feeling
the weight
of the next morning
waking up bare
the cold air holding my bare legs hostage
the insecurity of my chest without cover
except for a flimsy T-shirt
I vaguely remember
putting on the night before.
It was that heaviness that sat on me
crushed me
because there he was right in front of me
as if the morning shine was
supposed to be there
as if my discomfort wasn’t painted
onto my face.
I can tell you, though
the color of my blue and white sweater
the black bralette still hidden in my drawer
the black leggings which clung to my
shaking knees
and the zip up torn brown combat boots
I wore the next day
in order to hide the twin marks
burned in mirror images onto my chest
that I can’t quite remember
how they got there.