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It’s been 10 years since you last saw me.
I’m softer. Matured. Unrecognizable. And yet 
the feeling of your roaming eyes still darkens my skin,
the phantom sensations making me retch.
Your vile intentions occupy a corner of my brain
with no sign of conceding territory.
I can’t go to the doctor
lest that hotel room comes rushing back
and renders me unable to bear sight of my skin for a week.
I swear colorfully,
as often as I did refusing you.
Would you like that? 
Would you take pleasure being reminded of the resistance you so toyed with?
Or would you prefer me docile and doe-eyed?
God, I can’t think of a version of me that wouldn’t bring that greed to your mind.
I can only hope my age would shatter your desire
or turn it to ash on your tongue.

You’re a faceless monster,
carefully calculating and breaking down your victims’ walls
without revealing a hint of yourself in return.
I showed you everything.
(I want to gag at the thought.)
I know nothing of you.
You make up too much of me.

I used to find joy in who I was.
Believed my difference to be wholly my own,
an escape from you and the shaming eyes of God.
Turns out you were the cause all along.
You wrecked me, didn’t you? 
Is what was once a source of pride truly a stain of ruin?
I am disfigured and discolored,
and no amount of bleach will ever remove your mark.

To add insult to injury, this was never bad enough anyway. 
My ache is unwarranted; I’ve suffered so little in comparison.
I was 10.
I was smart enough to log off,
to say no,
to realize no dream was important enough to surrender myself over.
I’m not a true victim.
Your hands never grazed my skin 
or caused deeper harm; you scarred me with eyes alone.
Our paths crossed for maybe an hour or two,
not nearly enough to last a lifetime.
So why have you staked your claim on my psyche?
I want to burn you clean from me.
You forced me into a prop for your pleasure,
faceless and inhuman.
There’s no telling if you sold what was never meant to be seen
and then how many times I’ve been used. 
I want you to suffer.
I want you to ache.
Maybe that’s immature,
but that turns you on, right?
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