By Courtney Brown
Boys with sweet faces Will take you to places That you never wanted to be
The man that you personified In our day to day lives Was nowhere near the boy that I met that night
Because after you threw me in your backseat, Drugged up on weed laced with PCP
Your face didn't seem so sweet
PCP is one hell of a drug and dissociation called to me; Watching my body, but not watching me.
I floated above, as you threw me around the car I watched every touch that wasn't recieved I heard every no that managed to escape my Mouth as you grabbed at my clothes
You said, "That's okay," and continued anyway You must not have heard over the music that lulled me to sleep. And your face didn't seem so sweet.
Defeated and alone, you messaged me from your phone: "I hope last night was good for you."
Were you ever taught what was good and bad? Right and wrong? Your good and bad and bad and Good seem to be lost in translation
While the dissociation had worn off, but I still felt Dissociated from my body because I wasn't Me
I was a metaphor of the girl I used to be.
Chain smoking cigarettes and wanting to be free Of the pains and anxieties that had lived with me my whole life.
Pills in one hand; in the other, a knife.