Dear Lauren

dear lauren, i think i know what he did to you. he paraded you around like a trophy and it fit you were bright gold with a sun-kissed tan from a florida vacation until he got to you, ripped the light from your eyes and tore you apart as if you were but another notch in his belt. but then again, i shouldn't be talking about you, because this isn't about us and i try to convince myself that it never was. this is about him, and his madcap sisterhood of broken girls

and i can't even begin to imagine what he must have done in four months: if he managed to shatter me in only a few minutes, though to be honest i'm not quite sure how long he took to finish with me and i'm sure you know what it's like when things become a blur.

and lauren, i want to apologize because you could have been saved so much pain if only, i had spoken out more, pressed harder. i tried, honestly i did: but the men in charge, with their sharply buttoned up shirts and polyester smiles me their hands were tied and i wanted to scream, because how dare they compare burecracy with confinement.

and i replay that moment, constantly because i regret every second of it every time i said it was no big deal and every time i said it was okay and really, i know have no right to be angry because i got myself there anyways. but if i had told the truth about his strange violence, his excellence at charming everyone else but me and his smile that said he wanted every inch of my body and soul whether or not i agreed maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have hurt you.

so dear lauren i am sorry and when you're in those intermediate stages, when you don't want to blame yourself but you're not quite ready to pin it on him, i am more than happy to take the fall.