morocco

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When I think of morocco I shake.
When I think of the details, I stutter.
When I think of the intensity, I choke.
When I think of the disgustingness, I heave.
When I think of my heartache – my pain, I weep.
When I think of the vulnerability and crime made, I sob.
When I think of my isolation, I sob.
When I think of this as being performed on me, I’m baffled.
When I think of piecing it together, I blank.
When I think of the terror I felt on that day, I shake some more.
When I think of his face, I heave again.
When I think of the deserted red bricked ruin, I stutter some more.
When I think of the trapping and inability to move, I choke again.
When I think of the sand holding me from running, I feel the terror fill my body once more.
When I think of the way his hands groped at my breasts, I want to kick him and kick him and pull at his bits. I want to punish him and hurt him like he did, the dick.

But what good would this do, to perform this act back onto you?

I remember the gratitude I felt that you didn’t want more. That you didn’t want to lie me on the floor and ask for me.

So for that I want to thank you, you complete and utter knob. For leaving a part of me preserved – a part of me untouched. The rest of me played witness to this grotesque and ugly act, but that little part of me stayed truant to this selfish, disgusting twat.

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