Staring at my reflection and wondering when the bruises on my soul will start showing on my skin. People keep telling me to "get help" but they don't understand - the help I need isn't therapy, it's justice. The kind that leaves marks and stains that never wash off. My body remembers what was taken from me even when my mind tries to protect itself. Every time I spread my legs, I feel the ghost of violation, and every orgasm feels like a betrayal of my own flesh. They think schizophrenia means I'm confused, but I've never been clearer about what needs to be done to make things right.