Emilie.

I learned to own my anger on a charter bus to New York City, blanket-wrapped and pillow-propped against the window seat, listening to anthems for vengeful, abused girls. Songs that taught me how to blame, how to fight, and how to make suffering sexy. You wrote about your trauma and torn innocence so I wouldn’t have to. And so many girls wouldn’t have to. And millions of girls won’t have to.

Girls find you with raw, bleeding arms and tearstained faces and crumpled up, sweat-dampened sheets of paper with bad poetry on them because we didn’t know how to get the words out without dying. Girls live vicariously through song – I can face him, I can reach down his throat and tear my innocence from out of his body and put it back where it belongs. I can kill him.

 

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