I stared intently at the girl, and I can hardly recognize her, but surely it must be me. This is my reflection after all.
My once dark glowing ebony skin, still dark, still ebony, but now a tapestry of bruises, hickeys and scars. I brush my fingers over them, and relish the pain that doing so brings. I am no masochist, but the pain, it reminds me that I'm not a log of dead wood, it tells me that I have not become totally numb and unresponsive.
And so I relish the pain, and I press down harder on the bites on my n****e and the scars on my thighs. It feels good to do so, and I laugh maniacally, thinking of the irony.
I laugh again, even more maniacally. To think that a week ago I was a not so innocent girl, completely inexperienced in the age old carnal dance of women and men.
I canno
