It takes both hands to count the number of times I’ve been ***** but doesn’t count because I didn’t say ‘no.’
Both hands to recall the men who I felt obligated to sleep with because I had turned them on it’d be ‘mean’ to leave them that way.
On both hands, I can remember the number of times the smell of alcohol on his breath made me want to ***** as he kissed my neck before thinking that I wanted it.
Both hands to count the number of times I wasn’t strong enough to push him off of me before he pushed inside of me.
Both hands to count the number of times he told me to ‘calm down, it was alright.’
I used both hands too many times to run my nails down his back, making him think I was enjoying myself; hoping to end it end sooner.
On both hands, I can count the number of ******* I faked on a different man’s mattress in a different position than the man before.
On both hands, I can count the number of times I said I liked it from behind the most so I wouldn’t have to see his face.
On both hands, I can count the number of men I thought might sleep with me and actually like me instead of using me as just another way to get laid.
Both hands I can count the number of times he finished and I got dressed in the dark so that I could leave and never hear from him again.
On both hands, I can count the number of times I’ve cried myself to sleep, feeling ashamed of the number of men I’d wished I’d said ‘no’ to.
Both hands I can count the number of nights I’ve stayed up only to cut another slash through my wrist and let his memory seep through the wound.  
On both hands, I count the number of times I didn’t want to have ***, but felt guilty and pressured into doing what he wanted.
Both hands I can count the number of times I’ve been *****, but didn’t say no, didn’t struggle, only cried in silence after it was over.