CTRL + H
reveals an awful lot.
oh, how i wish i’d known.
what to do.
but at 18,
who does?
i’ve done my research now.
five years on a register, minimum.
but you took more than just my innocence that night,
held it captive to a loaded gun
locked and ready, with screams of
“you are not good enough”
“you are the one who’s not right”
got away with your dignity and reputation too.
and where was mine?
left in tattered pieces, torn polaroids
of what used to be
me and you.
you left with no idea of what damage you’d inflicted
and i’m still 18
and sat on your bed in the dark,
still staring at the screen.
10 years on.
but it’s not too late to have you convicted.
not yet.
you think you’ve got away with what you’ve done,
what you did,
what you excused away.
but i still remember that night
and the next day.
returning home to uni halls
broken, grey, defeated.
not telling a soul
well, not until recently,
anyway.
so how much did you really get away with?
stormsinteacups 