His two fingers between my legs felt like matches.
I still do not know what hurts more:
him touching me or thinking of him touching me;
either way, I did not ask for it. He knew this.
I was wrapped around his finger, like snow draping over branches.
Even though it has been six years
I still have a hard time breathing in winter;
the cold air in my throat feels tight,
like ice packed on concrete, like his arm against my chest.
I cannot breathe but I am learning how to.
Is there a difference between withering and weathering?
I let myself get sucked into the thought of it:
I do not know how to not put my emotions in weather

By Kelly Peacock


Kelly Peacock is a poet from New Jersey who has recently received her Bachelor of Arts degree in Creative Writing with a concentration in poetry at Fairleigh Dickinson University. Along with being a three-time recipient of the Andonis Decavalles Poetry Award, she has interned with The Poetry Society of New York at The Typewriter Project and The Poetry Festival as well as at The Literary Review. She has been published once through Rising Phoenix Press and she hopes that these poems, “GHOST,” “STILL,” and “A DIFFERENCE BETWEEN WITHERING AND WEATHERING” will make other survivors of sexual assault feel a little less alone.

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