It's insidious, this feeling..
Like stabs to the midsection, a slow tortous death...
and it hurts, but not all the time, or even some of the time... it's just that sneaky.
Sometimes just the smell of a mans cologne or seeming a distant masqueline similarity will bring back memories of hard, larte, hot hands. Memories that leave you hovering between emptying the contents of your stomah, or screaming until your throat is raw and bleeding. And the worst part is the feeling of utter loss. The sense that you aren't really worth much more than what a monster used you for. It's a scary thing to be stuck in a shell thats only seen as overtly sexually, and because you are a black woman, that race known for it's strenth and survival in the hardest of times, you cannot show your frailty to the world, or even accept it in yourself.