the only men that i speak to on a daily basis
are all younger than me by years.
because six and a half years ago.
i went to a party at a best friend's house,
a man i had known for five years.
i met a girl who made my head spin -
or maybe it was just the drinks she had poured.
i'm still not sure which.
everyone got a little too drunk
and had a little too much fun.
i've always had trouble falling
asleep around strangers.
it started when a boy three years my senior
decided to take the innocence
of an eleven year old girl.
but that's a story for another time.
see, i nestled myself between this angel of a girl
and my older best friend expecting to be
safe, needing to be safe.
but in the morning,
when the sleep had burned
the alcohol off of his tongue,
i woke up to his hand inside me.
it's taken me six and a half years
to acknowledge that he heard my
panicked breathing and tears and
mistook it for passionate gasping
and didn't realize what he'd
done until i'd grabbed my things
and ran out the front door,
heaving air through my lungs
and choking on the bile
forcing its way out of my stomach.
i still tell myself that i was
just being dramatic.
that i am still just dramatic.
that if he had hurt me, he would apologize.
and when he didn't...
well, maybe there was nothing to apologize for.
two days ago, i wouldn't close my
eyes on an airplane because a man
sat next to me and if i
can't trust someone that i held
so dear to not hurt me,
why would a stranger be any different?
****** assault.
it's the first time i've allowed myself
to consider that maybe, just once, i was a victim.
and i realized that nearly every man
that has held seniority over me has
coerced me or hurt me or violated me,
touched me without my permission.
and with strangers and new acquaintances
and even with new friends,
i keep looking for the sadism in their smile,
the betrayal in their movements,
the lurking deceit in their words.
i can't ever let go and just trust,
i can't let my guard down,
not for a moment.
i'm afraid of older men,
and i finally know why.
11/04-05/2019.
it's not a good poem but i needed to put it down somewhere because i don't see my therapist for another three weeks.
sometimes i still feel like the girl standing in the front yard in pajamas,
the next day's clothes in my hand,
because i ran before i could face what happened.