months of wondering what the hell happened, and if it was a dream or not. finally arriving upon an affirming decision, only to second-guess myself again. all those things they say about emotional young women: rape accuser, attention whore. why am i the one at fault? you did this to me? all i did was type it out. but you are the one who wrote me this. and you know what? let the blood boil. it was never ego going to my head. it was blood rushing to my head. just like it happened then. and all the nerves permanently stained by emotional memory; the ones that are supposed to be sacred to a woman. the ones that were mine, but you made yours. a tragic haunting: they speak to me in the night. and after years of waiting, wondering what can i do? they whispered to me, closely in my ear: write the book.
