I have this thing about honesty. I don’t understand why you could paint an elaborate picture, just to try to deceive me for some assumption you made about me. However, if I was being honest, I would tell you that you scare me.
I woke up. I regained consciousness. I couldn’t breathe. Anxiety attacks make it difficult to breathe—but so does a chokehold. I don’t remember consenting to this. I don’t remember consenting to that. Someone help. I can’t stand up for myself while I struggle to breathe.
I was horrified you were going to destroy me. To ruin me. To enslave me as you have others. I was even more terrified when I saw my blood on you. You ripped me into pieces—literally. Antibiotics had to be given.
You tried to take me in the bathroom. Turn over. That’s where I drew the line.
Your phone goes off. I have to take Callie to work. I think I asked you to stay. You say you can’t find your sock, but you leave anyway.
I never wanted to fuck you. Sympathy Sex. Instead, I woke up confused and violated. And even though I love you, I never want you to touch me again.