Blame the Victim in Letters of Renaissance

For the last week or so, the glass, my skin, has felt incredibly thin and weak. Brittle as a sheath of ice across a puddle at the break of a November morning. I don’t want it to be known how people can get to me, and yet I want to be free of the secrecy I’ve gathered amidst all the blaming. I don’t want my last pieces of innocence to surface for fear even that will be ridiculed and chalked up among the things the world finds unacceptable.
And still there is this freedom. I want my innocence to be outside of me, and a resting place that would be respected and visited once in awhile.
I didn’t choose to be born a male. I didn’t seek to be abused.
It’s hard to find any solace even in dear friends lately, when they seem to try to convince you otherwise or give you a list of all the things that should have been done.
That I should have done.
None of it seems any clearer when I lay down alone at night. Unknowing of how much time has passed before I leave into the glen of dreams.