(no subject)
I laid on wood floor panels the night I was assaulted. I was 20 and I was sunshine.
The whorls in the wood dug themselves into my skin like a permanent tattoo, just under the surface, a wooden microchip, splinters I can't pull out. One on my breast and one on the back of my thigh that he grabbed while he pushed into me.
The dark wood warps around me like living tendrils. It wraps itself around my ankles, around my throat, around the empty cavity in my chest. It digs itself into my heels and makes me pray to it: The Saint of Destruction.
I sit on a rug dyed blue with a scalpel and try to carve it all out.
"I am not Pinocchio", I yell. "I am not made out of wood."