Crouched in a corner, this red telephone box, home for the night. A swig of cider eases tears, though not the pain. Fifteen and alone, no-one to confide in, No one, with whom to tell the truth. "Why did he do it, please God, why?" I shiver from the cold penetrating through a broken pane, And relive the nightmare. I can hear the slow footsteps ascend the stairs, Bed covers pulled over my head. Please no, not again, and again and again. Fear surges through me, Hate rises with every single unforgettable touch, I try to blank my mind, but can not completely. I can not scream out loud, only inside. Distraught confused, unable to see a way out. Unable to cope with all that my body, And emotions are forced to endure. Over, it's over, he's gone. I ache with the forcefulness of his sexual assault against me, I feel unclean, like dirt, degraded. Totally debased, morally destroyed, I know hate as never before. The night will pass easier now, WHAT CAN I DO? I am utterly alone in my anguish, Am I alone in my situation? Surely I can not be? Who else can I tell when my mother will not listen? Who will believe me, with the eyes of society closed? Who will want to believe me? Believe the truth. Crouched in a corner of this red telephone box, Nowhere else to go, The air is winter's chill. Cider bottle empty, drunk at last, Too numb and incoherent, to notice the cold. But I am away from my nightly torture chamber that was home, My home, where I should feel safe and loved. I am free from the brutality of it all. Alone, yes very alone, But free. Safe and untouched this night, Until found and returned by a disbelieving society, To my torture chamber, My bedroom.