Stick your fingers in my mouth. Please. Stick your fingers in my mouth. Like I do. Stick your hand down my throat, Please. Honey. I’ll show you how. To reach down my esophagus and rip the life out of me. Like I do. Mmm. Just like that.
See? It’s not so hard. Now do it again. And again and again and again and again. Please.
I didn’t expect this, But I guess no one does. No one expects it to be someone you trust. In your own home, In your own bed, After saying no multiple times, Screaming in your head. It isn’t been easy to face, Or talk to anyone. When you aren’t a woman and they weren’t a man, When you just feel like a statistic but even that doesn’t seem to match. Both part of a community you thought you could trust. In a time when they call this a witch hunt Why does it feel like I’m still the one being hunted? Why can I still feel their hands on my waist, And have the taste on my tongue as I said get away. It wasn’t enough. I guess I needed to push or shove, But instead I froze. And now I am to blame? Being told to report or be shamed, Guilty for the next one, For letting them walk, When the fact is I know even if I did talk Nothing could or would really be done. And I know we aren’t in Salem, you can’t burn me at the stake, But why then do I still feel flames Crawling up my legs?