Fire Truck Red

I wish my sentences came with a receipt of words so I could take back what I said, I wasn’t being completely honest when I said I wasn’t scared of him. Praying on the un-expecting innocent children. You spit out virginity, purity and safety. How could I not believe in evil when you stood there tapping the knife between your two fingers, the sound of the blade scraping against the wall, the feel of your breath on my eight year old neck. I could still feel that breath and I scrubbed my thighs until they were fire truck red, ripped the skin of my lips and let my soul leave the empty shell of my body so I’d never be able to feel that form of touch again. Because who needs intimacy more than a broken man with a retched ego, a man with more victims than morals, a man whose blood is liquor and suffering.