Some memories are dark religion.
I see their icons everywhere I go
and they remind me of you.
You, you hit me and you told me
to shut up. And you hit me
again and said I'd have to walk home
on that busy highway.
And all I could think was
I didn't want to ever go
home or have my father know.


Some memories are dark religion.
It was more important to me
that no one would ever know
what happened to me,
than that it was happening.
You hit me,
and I felt you must be right.
I must deserve it, being what I am,
being what I do.
I got on that motorcycle
with you, disobedient and wild.
I am not a victim, and
I am not a child.


Some memories are dark religion.
So another man comes by
and he does what you do.
He hits me with his words and
I know just what to do.
I lie there so quiet
and I'm polite and I say
exactly what he tells me to say,
I say what he says, and
I do it just right.
He must know my secret
and he drags it to the light.


Some memories are dark religion.
I must be a tramp like all the girls said,
I must be a whore and this must be
deserved. Every man wants a virgin,
he wants her pure and white,
every man who sees me knows
that I won't fit just right.
I'm not fit to love,
I'm some other man's trash.
I bite my lip, and maybe this time,
maybe this time it won't last.


~XineAnn