I am a ****
And I refuse to believe that
Women have a right to their bodies
I realize this may be a shock, but
Saying “Don’t Get *****,” rather than “Don’t ****”
Is a lie, and
Because you said “yes” to him, means you say “yes” to all men.
In 30 years, society will believe that
A man’s ego
Is more important than
The word “no”
I tell you this:
Teen girls’ safety matters
But this will not be true in my era
This is a male supremacist society
Experts tell me
Men will be superior to women
I do not conclude that
Women will be powerful
In the future
There will be no equality
No longer will it be said that
Women deserve to be heard
It will be evident that
It’s the victims fault for ****** assault
It is foolish to presume that
Your voice matters.
And all of this will come true, unless we reverse it.

Here you are again
Lying next to me, I was wrapped up in the comfort of my duvet just a few seconds ago But now I’m tangled up in your fingers (again)
They speckle my skin with indigo and violet ink that I scrub at
It wont wash off
Your teeth sink into my neck, through my veins
You’ve entered into my bloodstream
My limbs start to detach
All I am is this mould of flesh in the palm of his hand
You keep crashing into me
Painting every corner of my body with your tongue
Crimson seeps down my spine as he plays it like a violin
Strumming and plucking at my cords
When will it end?
God, when will this end?
I close my eyes, they’re filled with water
It fills my mouth and lungs
I’m drowning
His body is a weight that drags me down further
It refuses to let me swim up towards the surface
Even a quick gasp for air is forbidden -
Tell yourself that this is just another bad dream
Keep telling yourself that
I’m fading into his sheets
I wake up
Wrapped in the comfort of my duvet, just like I was a few seconds ago
I’m alone but
The memory of him is always ever-present
He lives on in every cell and every bone.

“Quiet” he says, its easier when I’m quiet,
But how can I be quiet when he’s stabbing at me.
“Breathe” he says, its easier when I breathe,
But how can I breathe with a hand gripping my neck.
“Smile” he says, its easier when I smile,
But how can I smile when he’s shattering my innocence.
“Moan” he says, its easier when I moan,
But how can I moan when my whole body is screaming in pain.
“Beg” he says, its easier when I beg,
But how can I beg when I want his hands off my body.
“Cry” he says, its easier when I cry,
But how can I cry when I know that’s what he enjoys.

I am a third generation of ****** assault victims.
A third generation.
My mother before me had experienced assault time and time again.
I don’t believe I even know all the stories.
She experienced men who thought that because they can push your head where they wanted meant that she would not, could not, fight back.
Man, were they surprised when they felt the sharp ridges of her teeth sink into their shaft.
My mother is a fighter.
Her mother before her experienced a man who hid behind a medical license
He said if she wanted to be cleared to go back to work, she simply had to pull down her pants.
She was there to check on her shoulder.
She told him that there was no way and he could tell the company whatever he wanted but she was not going to be taking off her pants.
They later arrested this man for molesting dozens of patients.
A ******* under the guise of a medic.
My grandmother was a fighter.
And don’t you dare think that for some reason growing older gets you a pass.
At 72, she moved into a new apartment building with people of all ages and backgrounds.
One day, walking home, a man decided to press his naked body against a window while she walked by.
He gyrated his hips and touched himself as she ran by.
Sometimes I worry if he’ll step out from behind the glass.
Me though? I do not know if I am a fighter.
Maybe its because my assault took a different form, one they rarely talk about.
When my older cousin asked me to play a game I was thrilled to be a part of her world.
It took me years to realize that where she kissed and what she touched and the game we played was actually how women have ***.
Years later I had a boyfriend, and for some reason when my lips said no, he heard ask again.
Ask again and again until she feels worn down. Ask again until she gives in.
Because that’s your boyfriend, aren’t you supposed to fulfill his needs?
How dare you be *****, or sick or not in the mood.
Men have needs, and can’t you see when they commit to just you, that’s your role.
When I was 21 I naively thought that I could make friends with a boy.
I told him before we ever met that I was not looking for love, nor ***, just a friend.
However, he reached for the check. However, he reached for my neck.
He kissed me, big whoop, I can live with that.
But then he put my hand on his lap to feel his hardness and asked me to **** it.
I lied and said not tonight, knowing I would never see him again, and left.
Maybe I am a fighter.
Maybe every woman I know is a fighter.
When my mother, my friends, my sisters, my roommates, my cousins, and the stranger on the street has a story like mine, don’t you think that it’s time?
Time to teach men that women, we are fighters.
I am a third generation of fighter.

Suspended between an inching glance and the constant fluttering of hands,
I shake coolness from my neck and cross my arms against my chest
The room grows small, as does the room in my chair, so that
The only room for solace is in the waking thought of sitting back and
Falling through
The floor
I have long since realized your goal, as you
Fold my comfort into a matchbox and
Slide it into your pocket
To light for later
From early years I’ve been taught to
Tuck my resistant words in the folds of rose petals and
Present them to all in unswerving gratitude, but perhaps
That is not enough to satisfy that
Ache in your crotch
Or your head or
Wherever you bridle
That pesky ego

--
c