I won't let it go

He looks at me in a way that makes my skin crawl. Maybe I’m overthinking, right?

“You’re old enough. You know what certain looks mean,” he told me.

Yes. I know.

I know when a look is more than a look.

When a gaze slices you open.

When it drags back every man who wronged you.

I know what it means.

I’m tired.

Tired of being told how I should feel.

When we’re uncomfortable, we know.

When we’re violated, we know.

Stop dictating the rules of my pain.

Stop telling me when to let go.

I knew it then. I know it now.

But no. I won’t let it go.

Because he is my teacher.

Back when I was a kid, it was a teacher.

Back in school, it was a teacher.

Even now, it is a teacher.

Forget the face. Remember the character.

The kind one.The know-it-all.The favourite.

I wanted to ask him back then: Why?

Why did you look at me like that?

Why did you do that? Why did you do it to her, to that child?

I was never alone. But was I?

I hate you.

I hate that we still breathe the same air.

I hate that we still share the same sky.

No. I won’t ignore it.

I can’t let it go.

Even if it sounds like the "rambling of an old man".

I won’t let it go.

She won’t let it go.

He won’t let it go.