The truth is that I don’t feel good about life anymore. That I don’t trust you or anyone for that matter.

That I’ve stood in the castigation of the night too many times, that I remain there, with my salted feet bearing the weight of a world made for people tougher than me, without kindness or compassion.

That I can’t do it anymore, that I’m tired, that I tried, that I pretended, that I really did.

That you all flash nameless in my memory, in my bed, that the touch was different but the blows were the same, that I bled the same.

I felt my own name evaporate from my body, when she sat there telling me, palms up what I had been desperately trying to cover up, that I’ve lost it, that I don’t have it anymore, that you all took it away. 

That I’m nobody.