“I find myself on piles of pillows in their basements, pressed down under their bodies, their lurching breath in my ear. I don’t know how I’ve wound up here, and I want it to end, and I repeat to the rhythm of their bodies, “You’re a slut, you’re a whore”, and I want a bath, want to scrub them off, why does this keep happening? Why don’t I say no? There’s a rush when they want me, and they always do, they’re boys, that’s what they want, and once they’ve got me half lying on the couch, each basement, each boy, each time, my brain shuts off, the rush is over, I’m numb, I want to go home. The impulsive tumble into the corner, the racing pressure in my head always ends like this: I hate them, and I hate myself, and I swear I won’t do it again. But I do. And I do. And I do.”
— Madness-Marya Hornbacher
On July 12 2011
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