It’s sad that the first time I speak to someone,
Their opening line is
“Thank you for telling your story, it has helped me.”
It’s upsetting that I have so many stories to tell;
Like the time four boys pinned me to the cold pavement
And they took it in turns to force me to kiss them.
I remember how the onlookers did nothing,
They wanted me to learn the meaning of boys will be boys.
It will always remain one of the stories that I will never tell,
Similar to the story of my childhood where
Boys would run their hands down the body that came to be my carcass, to claim
What never belonged to them.
The story I tell is the assault of an older girl,
A girl who knew what the assault was,
A girl that will never admit that the rape happened more than once
And a girl that suffered incredible violence.
I hate how I have so many of these stories to tell,
But what is worse is how there’s so many others that
Need to hear them to feel less alone in their pain.
It is worse that I am not alone in my pain.
I wish they could see what remains of us,
The victims of the violence that they have left behind
To suffer in their misery alone.
I wish they could see the meaning behind the numbers,
The ages I’ve been throwing throughout this poem
But they’ll never mean anything to anyone but me.
We need to become the leaders of a revolution, no more numbers.