i’m 19, and a college student--

no, strike that,

i dropped out after a semester

because i couldn’t afford it--

no, strike that,

i flunked out because i couldn’t handle it.

the truth,

the honest truth?

a month before i turned eighteen

i was raped.

and with fingers on my throat

and in my skin

and in my dreams,

i only barely made it

through senior year,

but i thought that i’d be better,

for sure,

because i didn’t know what else to be,

but the fingers never left me

and it took all i had just to keep on

being.

and then two months after college started,

i listened to my friend kill herself,

heard her sob into the line,

and the bang, and the silence,

and i hated myself for not saving her

and i hated myself for hating her

and i hated myself because all i thought

before bursting into tears

was

no fair.

why did she get to do it,

why did she get to leave?

all my problems,

all my pain,

and she got relief,

and i was left behind.

and i couldn’t do it,

couldn’t go to class,

couldn’t go to work,

couldn’t find it in me to crawl out of bed

and look at the world.

everything was shit--

no, strike that,

i was shit,

and everything went wrong.

so i lied,

because it was all i remembered how to do,

and after i’d been kicked out,

i’d been taken in,

because i cried and crooned,

and wove a tale of not how i was pitiful,

but how i was poor,

because it was easier to deal with money issues

than mental issues.

but i made it through the year

and back to a place

that everyone else called my home,

where i was beaten and cursed

and told to die

(and what kind of home charges rent,

by the way)

by a person who didn’t even know how useless

i was.

as far as my mother was concerned,

i had a 4.0 gpa,

but even that

wasn’t good enough.

and now,

i’m out, or will be soon,

but i’m poor, for real,

working as a waitress at a job that doesn’t cover

my rent, and forgetting my past,

my skills,

in favor of the lunch and dinner

menu.

(i knew languages once, didn’t i?

built websites and programs,

spoke with natives in France

and learning more)

and what was the point?

no degree, no experience,

no money, no pride.

the fingers haven’t left.

i hear his voice,

and hers,

and mine,

all screaming.

i don’t know where i’m going.

i’m scared.

you've memorized every inch of yourself and have come to the conclusion you are not beautiful. but see yourself with strangers' eyes:

that scar is captivating.

that mole on your face? it's called a beauty mark.

crooked teeth adds character; it's not a flaw.

your eye color is completely stunning.

your complexion radiates.

those freckles are the cutest thing.

all of you is beautiful.

You took a cigarette

from between your lips,

blew smoke into the sky -

forming clouds of your own

Utopia. You always said

if we close our eyes

we can almost make out

a heaven of our own.

I didn't believe you,

until you went to that

heaven you dreamt of

for so many years.

I envied you;

then I missed you.

I tried to conjure

up the image you

described once when

we were drunk,

but all I saw was

clouds from secondhand smoke

and dimming stars.

I guess I'll never know.