Dawn Stahura
BETWEEN COUNTY ROADS 600 NORTH AND 450 WEST
cw: sexual assault
You know i still see the house lights burn in the distance and under that
roof my parents sleep and in my bedroom my radio plays to an empty bed
because i am in a car parked in a cornfield in the backseat with a boy who
doesn’t hear no and i thought sneaking out this once was fine and he was mine
—the only thing mine is my blood carrying away the no please i don’t want this
—those house lights beg me to come back and i wish i could but my body is not
—anymore it belongs to this break in and i know this will shape the way i
give myself so freely why i guess i am so easy to have because the taking
—this body gutted should have stopped the world should have brought
down a storm —this thing can not be shaped and shifted twisted twined–
if i could rope tight myself up free myself from this i could let go of
a coming home a sound maybe a door open that i can pass through