In this powerful poem spanning a year in the life of a sexual abuse survivor, our 16-year-old writer describes the impact of abuse and raises questions about the way the legal system handles these crimes. key slots in the lock as she heaves open her front door – it feels heavier than before. The only noise she meets is the slow ticking of the clock – tick, tick, tick – as it mimics her thudding heart. She is alone – and glad of it. Gripping the bannister to steady her weight, she drags herself up the stairs. Bedroom. She glares at the phantom figure in the mirror, as trembling fingers rise up to her watery eyes, smudging black mascara down her cheeks. Clenching her fist, she smashes the face staring back at her – over and over and over. Hot blood drips from her fingers, shards scattered around her feet. Shower. She scrubs her skin ferociously, water stinging the fresh gashes on her hands, a distraction from the cringing ache between her legs. Bile fills her mouth as she slumps against the floor of the cubicle, her legs folding beneath her. She splutters and coughs, as the water trickles down her crushed form.