Out of all the words in the human languages, almost is the cruelest.
I almost loved you.
I almost won.
I was almost there.
I was almost *****.
When he snuck into the room like a wolf stalking its prey, my stomach didn’t almost tie in knots.
It became a sailor’s masterpiece.
When he laid beside me as quiet as a stone, I wasn’t almost shaking.
I was a leaf on the San Andreas Fault.
When his long, spidery fingers began trailing down my back, it didn’t almost feel like razors.
He cut so deep the skin began to peel back and expose every
insecurity that I’ve hidden away between my vertebrae.
His fingers didn’t almost dig into my arm,
they became shovels that dug a hole big enough for a casket.
Bruises didn’t almost blossom across my skin,
I was a primrose bush in full bloom and he was the gardener.
When he coerced himself between my thighs, I didn’t almost scream.
Years of ancestral abuse surged through my lungs and out my lips
into a battle cry.
When he tried to force his hand inside of me I didn’t almost feel spoiled.
I was a fruit rotting from the inside out, something that no one
would ever want.
And when my screams finally drove him off of me, I wasn’t almost okay.
I was paralyzed with fear and disgust and shame.
Everything I’ve ever believed in slapped me in the face as I told myself:
This is what I get for liking ***.
I shouldn’t be so easy.
I was asking for it.
It was my fault.
I felt like a butterfly, beautiful but ruined by a man’s touch.
Never to fly again.
But the truth is, a butterfly sheds scales throughout its lifetime,
regenerating its wings.
So when a man reaches for your wings in attempts to rip them off
remember that you are not what he thinks you are.
Remember that it is never your fault.
Not even almost.