My body doesn't feel like mine.
I feel skin on muscle
Muscles that move on bone
But I am not truly present.

My body doesn't feel like mine.
I feel hands on skin
Skin that quakes beneath wicked touch
But I am not truly present.

My body isn't mine
Without the tightness in my chest
A tightness that I deeply crave
But I don't know what's real.

This body isn't mine.
I feel a brushing of elbows
Elbows of strangers awakening the memories
But I /don't/ know what's real.

This voice isn't mine.
I speak stories of others
Other things I hope can allude
But none read between the lines.

We were all born crying,
And sometimes I think that even our tiny bodies could already feel the pressure of an unfair world.
A world where women’s bodies are a prize to be won or an object to rank.
A world where people obey the sign in the museum that says “Do Not Touch”,
And those same people decide that it’s a suggestion when a woman says “Do not touch”

Hands on my body before my first period.
Not sweet hands like sweet caroline.
Before, evil was something I used to look for in Disney villains, now, it’s eyes are everywhere, glued to my 17 year old body.
It’s in my neighborhood, in my coffee shop, in my bed. It whispers me shakespearean sonnets and tells me I’m ****.
Runs its fingers up and down my spine, zig zagging over the bone. Its kisses are soft and gentle, like springtime. It makes me feel important and deserving.
Then the sonnets turn from Romeo and Juliet to Macbeth, and It tells me:

****** thou art; ****** will be thy end.

Touching hands, not sweet hands.
Hard, cold, unloving, cigarette stained hands.
Cold hands on my beautiful body, my spectacular self.
I call out to nothing, and nothing responds.
I sink deeper into the bed, wanting time to stop, fast forward, or rewind or something.
I wait for the sonnets to end, and the pain to go away.
I wait for grass to grow and paint to dry.
And then it stops

and I am not me.

At the hands of men, I learned the lessons of life.

I first learned fear with your towering figure, explosive temper, shaking hands, and abrasive voice. The older I got, the more the words cut me, a double blow of volume and weight. The tremors of my body visible for all to see, they angered you, but I could see nothing through my blurred eyes. My head spun as my lungs forgot how to breathe and I lost myself in your anger.

Another taught me vulnerability. In the shadows of your room with your girlfriend next door, I was your puppet and you my master. You tarnished me, made me unclean. You stole from me my vulnerability, killed the me that breathed easy. At your hands, I lost myself.

And then I learned pain-at the hands of a different tutor, but at this point it’s all the same. I learned pain in the comfort of my room, cloaked in that fuzzy green blanket. I learned the kind of pain that tears through the heart and childishly demands attention at every given moment; an obnoxious nagging pain with its grating voice and quick jabs in the ribs. I learned the pain of regret, of indecision, of betrayal. Tears marked the torment of my mind, songs didn’t hit me the same. My heart was an open wound at the mercy of the elements around. I sought healing and peace, wound stitched closed, but such things leave scars. I still remember that lesson well, in your warmth and in your piercing blue eyes, I learned pain of the truest kind.

At the hands of men, I learned the lessons of life. But in my hands, that life blooms.

I once went to outer space
I thought it might be beautiful
I thought I might be part of it
But beauty is misleading.

He told me I was safe with him
He said my body was like the stars
And when you’re twelve and insecure
That’s all you want to hear.

Cautiously I trusted him
I stepped outside one toe at first,
I poked my nose just past the door
I grinned at the unknown –

At once
I gasped–
My lungs collapsed.
And body froze in fear and pain.
Lips pursed, he shoved me further out.
“More or else” he screamed.

I cried for Mom.
I begged for home,
My tears solid in the vacuumed space.
But I was told that mothers don’t
Want a child *****.

He left
A mark the color of red wine
Zinfandel
Placed high on cheek bone
Directly under her left eye
Such tears only bruising
It further

I didn't mean to
He simply stated

She left
A note the color of resentment
Charcoal
Placed atop bedroom dresser
Directly over her exiled contents
Such emptiness only reinforcing
It further

Once was more than enough
She simply stated

"Every survivor of ****** assault deserves to be heard, believed, and supported."

Rainwater of
the Elysian fields,
you assuredly do
like to drown your winged heroines?
You write them as strange
bitter narratives,
spurious to the calling
or as a bit of
bloodletting go.

The history formed around either
her breaking at the seams
upon the witching hour,
and her own home village
pillaging her claims
in the bonfire;
Or the arcane notion
no woman shall give testimony
against a neighbor
on the occasion he's a man.

Yes, she cried 'no' at the temple gate
Yes, she repeated such entreaties
But she'd also been into the ale
and wore an overtly
fetching carousal dress
you incensed.
Let her dam break
Let her try and flood us over
you mocked.
She was only a wayfaring angel
one reckless bird of passage
What type of wounds
could she inflict?

How easily you lost sight
of her will & halo
becoming stronger than fright.
Down she poured in antipathy,
until covering your gaping mouth!
It wasn't rain that killed you,
for you were the rain,
it was her blood calling out
that finally did you in...

He loved to teach...

He loved to teach her...

He loved to teach her abject lessons
      in elevators and on stairwells.


She hated to learn...

She hated to learn from him...

She hated to learn from him the inherent
       danger of buildings.