after “7 layers of hell” by Sierra DeMulder

In this room, every mistake I have
ever made meets up at my favorite coffee house.

Casually sipping iced lattes, they bicker over
what is the most annoying thing about me.

They conclude there are too many
to pick just one.

In this room, I open voicemails from my kindest friends
confirming my suspicions that they all actually hate me.

In this room, the multicolored pills jumble in my mouth
like a ball pit at a children’s birthday party.

In this room, I am finally genuinely proud of myself
and my parents are still not proud of me.

In this room, everyone who has ever loved me
finds an understandable reason to leave.

In this room, my mother doesn’t answer
when I ask her if she regrets me.
I am the opposite of forgiveness.
I am all rage and shriek and flame.

In this room, my trauma is made into an art museum.
The most popular exhibit showcases the portraits
of every man who has ever raped me, snarling.

In this room, the smell of his sweat on my pillowcase
follows me to sociology and the whole class can tell
most days, I am more victim than I am survivor.

In this room, I try to write a poem about anything
other than my sexual assault but all that comes out

is my throat
and his hands.