A politician on the radio tells me if I feel unsafe I should turn to a bus driver. A man I don’t know. I should trust him just because he wears a uniform? I don’t trust any man. Not after what you did. You thought it was okay even though I said no. You wanted it; you took it. You reeled me in like a fish on a hook. You won’t remember me. But I remember you. I live with the shame and the guilt. It was my fault, my fault, mine. Why didn’t I go to the police? Because they wouldn’t have believed me, because I froze, because my mind blacked out. The story of so many unseen, unheard survivors. What you left me with is fear. You – and the others – taught me that demons can have faces of angels. I see threat everywhere, feel the weight of hands about to grab me. This piece is for the trauma you left. I try to construct barriers in my mind and around my fractured heart, but the darkness always breaks through. It, you, haunts me in my dreams till I wake up screaming.