This piece contains information related to sexual assault that may be triggering to some readers.

My drink tastes funny, like it's sour or expired;

can you just tell me why?

You got your satisfaction at my cost.

I black out,

I wake up, my clothes are inside out.

My clothes are inside out,

My soul comes in, and out.

You're a coward and a liar,

feeding your ego, a perverse desire to

watch my confusion with an eagle's eye.

Delusional as you were serpentine,

feeding me cliche lines—

telling me: you'll be fine.

But I'm not fine, I'm lost;

I tried to forgive you, so I stuffed it inside,

now I remember after I forgot.

My Beloved, black lullaby,

I thought you were a friend of mine.

My clothes are inside out,

my soul comes in, and out.

You're preaching to the choir.

I'll be okay in time,

I just don't know the cost,

or in whom to confide.

Writing is my therapy,

there's nobody who can understand

better than my pen.

Because I know when

it's time to take a stand,

most are unprepared to read.

But the joy comes from inside, a place nobody can see.

Now it's freedom I got—

my soul can fly across blue skies,

now, my body has an alibi.

My clothes are right side out,

my soul flies up, and down.