The past reverberates through me in the present

stains my clothes pungent.

At fifteen, a boy stole the solace of the dark from me

in his bed

with his hands.

Now when he touches me,

he must keep the lights on.

In sleep the past has me,

travels upwards, claws at my throat

and I cry out

for the dark to let me in.

At twenty, the boy who stole the solace of my...

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