Can I just write a poem that says **** the police"
for every single line
for every single stanza
and leave it at that?
Because I'm imagining his next victim, because there will be a next one,
and how she will feel when she finds out that he had my former report
on his private police record, accessible only by certain police.
I want to scream, but the metal chain he put around my throat to choke me because
"ha ha you like that, right?" after I had already said no
is still there, so nothing can come out of my mouth,
except I've been screaming as loud as I can for so long;
One year and I'm still not free.
His body weight is still crushing me, still heavy; the bruises on my body still felt every day, my body a museum of decaying loss and my mind a perfect video recording that plays on repeat whenever I just
want
some
sleep;
Nightmares I wake from and can't wake from.
I think one of the hardest days of my life was when I got my **** kit.
I mean- you know- other than the actual ****
I developed a stutter that day.
I blame myself.
I blame. I -I- I blame myself.
But I can't!
All of the "no's" that I said to him didn't matter, the police said;
everything non consensual didn't count;
it was only the one coerced "yes" that counted;
Scared for my life but, **** the police, right?
And all the times that I said to the police "yes" that I was *****
collapse and boom like a bomb on deaf ears of police that tell me that,
"maybe you just regretted having *** with him."
Or how about when they rolled their eyes when they learned that I met him on tinder?
I gave them a smile and answered that yes, that's true, because what else was I supposed to do but tell the truth?
Or the first thing they said to me was "so then you had a few drinks..."
Well no, sir, that's not what happned, at all.
See, there have been multiple levels of injustice here and I thought I was doing the right thing to heal.
In my partial hospitalization program that I went to for PTSD,
that I got from my ******
I learned that the "right" thing to do was to seek help right away after a traumatic incident so that it doesn't lead to lifelong suffering;
Quick help leads to a faster recovery,
and I've always wanted to do the right thing:
Like getting him arrested for ****** me.
But the police don't listen even when your body has been confiscated, graffiti marked by your ******
and the police tell you coldly to just seek counseling because, after all,
you "consented,"
and that your ****** isn't a ****** in the eyes of the law.
A ****** isn't a ****** but is a ****** and he's going free.
I did the right thing but I'm still stuck night after night, waking up crying;
I wonder who will be next, and that person's weight is added on top of me;
The gallery of bruises he inflicts will just continue, and I wonder where on snapchat will they be next?
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 8:10 AM UTC
Can I just write a poem that says **** the police"
for every single line
for every single stanza
and leave it at that?
Because I'm imagining his next victim, because there will be a next one,
and how she will feel when she finds out that he had my former report
on his private police record, accessible only by certain police.
I want to scream, but the metal chain he put around my throat to choke me because
"ha ha you like that, right?" after I had already said no
is still there, so nothing can come out of my mouth,
except I've been screaming as loud as I can for so long;
One year and I'm still not free.
His body weight is still crushing me, still heavy; the bruises on my body still felt every day, my body a museum of decaying loss and my mind a perfect video recording that plays on repeat whenever I just
want
some
sleep;
Nightmares I wake from and can't wake from.
I think one of the hardest days of my life was when I got my **** kit.
I mean- you know- other than the actual ****
I developed a stutter that day.
I blame myself.
I blame. I -I- I blame myself.
But I can't!
All of the "no's" that I said to him didn't matter, the police said;
everything non consensual didn't count;
it was only the one coerced "yes" that counted;
Scared for my life but, **** the police, right?
And all the times that I said to the police "yes" that I was *****
collapse and boom like a bomb on deaf ears of police that tell me that,
"maybe you just regretted having *** with him."
Or how about when they rolled their eyes when they learned that I met him on tinder?
I gave them a smile and answered that yes, that's true, because what else was I supposed to do but tell the truth?
Or the first thing they said to me was "so then you had a few drinks..."
Well no, sir, that's not what happned, at all.
See, there have been multiple levels of injustice here and I thought I was doing the right thing to heal.
In my partial hospitalization program that I went to for PTSD,
that I got from my ******
I learned that the "right" thing to do was to seek help right away after a traumatic incident so that it doesn't lead to lifelong suffering;
Quick help leads to a faster recovery,
and I've always wanted to do the right thing:
Like getting him arrested for ****** me.
But the police don't listen even when your body has been confiscated, graffiti marked by your ******
and the police tell you coldly to just seek counseling because, after all,
you "consented,"
and that your ****** isn't a ****** in the eyes of the law.
A ****** isn't a ****** but is a ****** and he's going free.
I did the right thing but I'm still stuck night after night, waking up crying;
I wonder who will be next, and that person's weight is added on top of me;
The gallery of bruises he inflicts will just continue, and I wonder where on snapchat will they be next?
