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She had to reach inside herself and pull out pine needles. They stuck to her inner thighs, where his fingers had first grazed, trailing up. The lights in a police station post-rape are jarring. She looked through slitted eyes and faced a dumpster staring back, her mouth reeking of stale beer and blood. The cool infinity of last night loops into a tightly-knotted ribbon of forever, a graveyard of bruised hips and phantom touches. When the story stretched wider than the picturesque Stanford campus, ivy-covered walls that distract from dark dumpsters, a news anchor gave the viewers vital facts: “Brock Turner’s freestyle time is one minute and thirty-nine seconds.” No media could be bothered to discuss the humiliation of getting a **** kit. No one bothered to mention how helpless it is being too drunk and resigned to walk, naked, body like a rag doll left rotting with banana peels. The world stepped over a ***** girl to defend a white boy, to bail out a monster, all the while wondering where the blood on their shoes could have come from. She could still hear the music, a steady beat in spite of it all, ear pressed soundly into the pavement.
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Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
For Emily Doe: Brock Turner's Victim
She had to reach inside herself and pull out pine needles. They stuck to her inner thighs, where his fingers had first grazed, trailing up. The lights in a police station post-rape are jarring. She looked through slitted eyes and faced a dumpster staring back, her mouth reeking of stale beer and blood. The cool infinity of last night loops into a tightly-knotted ribbon of forever, a graveyard of bruised hips and phantom touches. When the story stretched wider than the picturesque Stanford campus, ivy-covered walls that distract from dark dumpsters, a news anchor gave the viewers vital facts: “Brock Turner’s freestyle time is one minute and thirty-nine seconds.” No media could be bothered to discuss the humiliation of getting a **** kit. No one bothered to mention how helpless it is being too drunk and resigned to walk, naked, body like a rag doll left rotting with banana peels. The world stepped over a ***** girl to defend a white boy, to bail out a monster, all the while wondering where the blood on their shoes could have come from. She could still hear the music, a steady beat in spite of it all, ear pressed soundly into the pavement.
emily doe i love you.
megan-williams28
Written by
Pittsburgh
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
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