I was on the bus and an old Indian guy sat next to me, fine. He started brushing my leg with his, okay that could be just the reality of a packed bus. I moved as close to the window as I could get and he started stroking my leg with his finger, underneath my bag, not fucking fine.
I get off the bus in the city that I truly despise, because he lives there, lived there, all those fucked up nights of booze and beatings, I am back there again. It hurts again. Bruises, blood, puke, booze, name calling, taunting, hands all over me, drink drink drink.
I go and get a massive tattoo that took a couple of hours, it hurts like a motherfucker but I don't care. I need the pain. I deserve the pain. The pain in my head is too much to bear without some kind of physical at the same time.
I get home and tell my parents. They couldn't give a shit. My Mum said 'well, what do you expect if you wear shorts like that!"
I was getting an ankle tattoo for fucks sake, and I am wearing tights, it's not exactly like I have slut written over my boobs. Maybe I just have it writen over my face.
SLUT SLUT SLUT.
I want to drink. I want to cut. I want to take all the tablets I have.
I can't cope.
I am so angry and hurt and livid and messed up and chaotic.
I probably won't do anything, because I am a coward, too much of a coward to go jump off a bridge or in front of a car and fucking end it once and for all.
No, I will just sit and stew and hurt and cry and drink myself to oblivion.
Because that's what he taught me and by fuck did I learn well.