Some days you will feel dirty
Some days you’ll remember how hard it is to breathe in public, like your heart beat is climbing to the attic of your throat only to suicide itself out on the pavement
But know this: the person who did this to you is broken, not you.
The person who did this to you is out there, somewhere choking on the glass of his chest, it is a windsheild, and his heart is a baseball bat saying wreck this, wreck this
NOTHING WAS STOLEN FROM YOU.
Your body is not a hand-me-down
There is nothing that sits inside you holding your worth,
no locket that can be seen or touched, sucked from your stomach and left on the concrete
And I know sometimes it’s hard to feel perfect
when you can’t tell an adam’s apple from a fist
because some ashtray of a man forced you to play his eden.
but I will not
Sierra DeMulder // Paper Dolls (via lilac-hour)
actually sobbing over this poem