You’re 15.
Sat on an uncomfortable, ugly, blue, plastic chair.
In a circle.
Facing your peers.
You’re all exhausted.
It is raining outside.
It is November.
It’s PSHE.
You’re learning about rape.
You listen to the definition.
You suddenly feel violently nauseous.
The room spins.
And his face flashes across your eyes.
You blink.
Rub them.
And grit your teeth.
You do not know how to process what you’ve just finally put a name to.
And so,
You pretend you don’t know its name.
You refuse to let it cross your lips.
To give it sound, and thus power.
To speak it would make it real.
To make it real would make it unbearable.
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