I Can't

How am I supposed to feel when I look your photograph?

Heart racing, my eyes dart from image to image. Always the same dead-eyed dopey smile. Family vacation. School photo. Band practice. My hands are wet and clammy. Your doughy face sneers up at me, lips curling obscenely like two pieces cheese protruding from the edges of a soggy, day-old sandwich. Each time, I want to feel enraged, and for that rage to validate the reality of the crime you committed against me.I can’t.I’m flipping through your Facebook photos on an anonymous account made specifically for this purpose. As “Jane Ray,” I draft messages to your friends and family that I don’t have the courage to send. I leave unsubmitted comments in the boxes beneath your photos and status updates. Pig. Filth. Rapist. You know what you did. My finger hovers above the enter key, blood rushing in my ears. I’m like a pirate’s prisoner on the precipice of the plank. Just jump, you coward.I can’t.Afterwards I always deactivate the profile. I’m afraid to leave it open. Just knowing the portal is there, my vacant account floating unattended in the ether, vulnerable to your existence, is too close for comfort. Shutting it down, I quickly retreat, logging into the safety of a social media world where I’ve blocked you and everything that reminds me of you. I try to forget.I can’t.I remember your crocodile tears. I remember your limp, rubbery kiss, and your too long hair stuck to your greasy forehead. Your hot breath on my neck. Your phlegmy groans and the precum stain on your ratty sweatpants. I desperately want the world to know how vile and disgusting you are. I want to plant the seed of doubt in the minds of your loved ones. I want to humiliate you, destroy your life, drag your ego through the mud then crush it like a cockroach. I want to take back the power you stole from me.I can’t.