times like these make me wish i never spoke. that like someone else i had the courage to stitch my lips shut. together. of course, figuratively. i wonder why i do talk anymore. i see myself in others- that's why i can laugh. why i can say the things i do. i laugh at myself, just like joyce laughed at stephen. only this time around, it was a person. living, breathing. not just a pulsation in the brainn. i see how those things can get to me though. that my reaction to all of it is to just shut up. just shut your mouth. get away from it. don't open up anymore. but i hate to see it. i fucking hate to see it. once i se it i can't do it. i cannot fucking do it. instead i open my fucking mouth and try to say something. why? i hate the word fuck. fuck fuck fuck. so loud and crass. i'm that girl in the backseat screaming. i'm the girl with her skirt pulled over her head. i'm the one being raped. but i pull the pillow over my face so that i don't have to see anymore. i grip the lacey edges of the pillowcase and pull it down hard on my face. to muffle the screams, sobs. to absorb the tears. i scream. he rapes me. the pillow is my own idea.
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