look at her, wondering if she knows just how much they both violated me. Would she see me differently if she knew I was raped by them both? That I was raped by both men and women, sometimes at the same time? A part of me thinks she does know. Yet she’s still here, in my bed, spending time with me. She doesn’t think I’m disgusting or used. “Do you want to talk about any of it?” “No,” I retort, hating myself for the shitty reply and the way she flinches. “Shit. Sorry. No. You’d run for the hills if you knew half the stuff she made me do.”
