I’ve convinced myself that you never really loved me.
I mean, how would with with how you treated me?
I’m also convinced that you never really wanted me the way you made it out to be.
You said the same things to her and her and probably her about their body.
How it made you want to do things,
How it was irresistible.
It makes me wonder if every time I made your leg quiver when I stroked you, and every time I made you gasp when I ****** you and every time I made you take your lords name in vein when I rode you, were you thinking of me?
Or behind those closed eyes were you thinking of D? Or M? Or someone else? Her? And her? And him? And them?
But even after convincing myself that you never loved me,there’s still one thing I can’t figure out.
How can someone treat me like that and use me like I’m a ******* rag to be thrown away and replace me like a doll but then look at me that way?
How can your eyes mirror mine?
Every time we locked eyes sitting in the car or in the park afterwards.
Every time you were inside me when we were together.
How could your eyes reflect back the love that mine held?
How can one make their eyes lie?

Now a days, men want a piece of you.
Just a piece though, why would they want the whole thing?
To know you, to love you, to cherish you, why would they need that when all they need is to be inside of you?
And I always think to myself that it's okay to let myself have some fun, to let myself explore, and to embrace being open and free.

But when I come home, when I'm alone at night, that's when I wonder if it's really worth it.
Why should I let them get what they want? Let them in, let them have some fun, let them win?

Why do I waste my time, waste my body, waste my soul, on men who wouldn't care if I dropped dead tomorrow?

You left me alone, laying on the floor, tears streaming down my face, screaming at the ceiling asking why you left.
You called me on the phone, offering some comfort, and then you cried because I was screaming.
But you only told me I was right about everything I said, how sad that is.
Then I was flying high and feeling good alone on the roller coaster of life- screaming, but for once a good way.
Then, the first time a boy took me on dates and I started to feel, he left, and there I was again, not screaming but I wanted to.
I wanted to scream at you.
Blame you for the pain I feel, blame you for allowing me to be hurt by someone else because this wouldn’t have happened if you kept your promise, your vow.
And when a man touches my body and then leaves, taking a piece of me, I’m left screaming.
When I am unsure if I can trust any others, I am screaming.
When I am afraid to love again, I am screaming.
I wish I could call you or show up at your house and shove you and hit you and destroy you from the inside out.
Because that’s what you’ve done to me.
On the inside I am always.
Screaming.

I am a third generation of ****** assault victims.
A third generation.
My mother before me had experienced assault time and time again.
I don’t believe I even know all the stories.
She experienced men who thought that because they can push your head where they wanted meant that she would not, could not, fight back.
Man, were they surprised when they felt the sharp ridges of her teeth sink into their shaft.
My mother is a fighter.
Her mother before her experienced a man who hid behind a medical license
He said if she wanted to be cleared to go back to work, she simply had to pull down her pants.
She was there to check on her shoulder.
She told him that there was no way and he could tell the company whatever he wanted but she was not going to be taking off her pants.
They later arrested this man for molesting dozens of patients.
A ******* under the guise of a medic.
My grandmother was a fighter.
And don’t you dare think that for some reason growing older gets you a pass.
At 72, she moved into a new apartment building with people of all ages and backgrounds.
One day, walking home, a man decided to press his naked body against a window while she walked by.
He gyrated his hips and touched himself as she ran by.
Sometimes I worry if he’ll step out from behind the glass.
Me though? I do not know if I am a fighter.
Maybe its because my assault took a different form, one they rarely talk about.
When my older cousin asked me to play a game I was thrilled to be a part of her world.
It took me years to realize that where she kissed and what she touched and the game we played was actually how women have ***.
Years later I had a boyfriend, and for some reason when my lips said no, he heard ask again.
Ask again and again until she feels worn down. Ask again until she gives in.
Because that’s your boyfriend, aren’t you supposed to fulfill his needs?
How dare you be *****, or sick or not in the mood.
Men have needs, and can’t you see when they commit to just you, that’s your role.
When I was 21 I naively thought that I could make friends with a boy.
I told him before we ever met that I was not looking for love, nor ***, just a friend.
However, he reached for the check. However, he reached for my neck.
He kissed me, big whoop, I can live with that.
But then he put my hand on his lap to feel his hardness and asked me to **** it.
I lied and said not tonight, knowing I would never see him again, and left.
Maybe I am a fighter.
Maybe every woman I know is a fighter.
When my mother, my friends, my sisters, my roommates, my cousins, and the stranger on the street has a story like mine, don’t you think that it’s time?
Time to teach men that women, we are fighters.
I am a third generation of fighter.