No more metaphors.

I have no use for metaphors
anymore.
I no longer cloak my words.

My life is not a river.
My trials are not a rapid,
not some menial rubber to be pulled off rock.

My life is tactile; my life is my own.

My trials have names.
My trials have court documents.
My trials have trauma embedded.
My trials are trauma.

My trials are rape.
My trials are sexual assault.
My trials are stalking.

My traumas are the quiet admonitions from men,
their motions of disbelief.

My trials are complete disregard
of myself,
of my life,
of my safety,

because I am “not a priority.”

My trials are suicide.
My trials are a high risk of murder.

My trials are domestic violence.
My trials are intimate partner violence.

My trials are not a river.

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