A Minced Meat Story

The reportage of a life lived is better if silence echoes the bell jar. Indecency and madness are labels they would give you. And you crouching somewhere in a corner with walls as big as prison cells, would laugh over the laws that demand a factual explanation. Tell me, the exact date, time, location of proximity where he did touch you? Well, dicks are supposed to be dicks right, and they never touch anything at all. In a courtroom full of eyes glaring at you like strange looking bulbs in a deranged land, you are a minced meat story. And nothing seems to matter, I tell you, nothing seems to matter. There is so much of me and me and me spilled over. Why, you have always been so foreign to all my insides. I will miscarry you.