Every day the news screams
The description of what happened.
Some people take note,
Others read it out of pity
very few take action
I am nothing more then a jellyfish
Reading the news every day.
Clicking my tongue in pity.
We don't need pity.
We need awareness.
I won't try to poison your ears
Telling you lies
As if I'm a victim of assault
I won't tell try to earn sympathy
telling you I know someone
who experienced that
someone close to me
But I hate that feeling,
walking down the streets
worried about every single person behind me
Terrified they might be a potential attacker.
I hate worrying, about my friends
Who are just outside for a few minutes
And yet have to be careful?
Why must we be careful?
Is it due to our genitals?
Is that the ONLY REASON?
It angers me
"You know better!"
I would rage silently at the news
It has no effect,
If I just keep my thoughts
maybe it's the fact i've been living in garbage, surrounded by rotting food and dirty laundry, because i can't find the energy to get out of bed, because i've been to depressed to anything but eat and feel sorry for myself and stew in not only my own sweat and dirt but my suicidal thoughts.
maybe it's the yellowing teeth because of the countless cigarettes i smoked to get the approval i craved of my boyfriend--sorry, EX boyfriend--who dumped me for seeking acceptance from his friends because it reeked of narcissism, because i was acting out of low self esteem and desire for validation.
maybe from the early signs of gum disease because of the substance abuse i was groomed to believe was the new vogue, or because blacking out every night is what freshman do and not a concerning coping mechanism i was using to hide a bigger issue.
maybe it's a result of the judgmental looks and comments on my worth from men and women alike because of my self medication in the form of intimacy and sexual attention--the ease at which i could be led to bed: through a lazy, slurred compliment and promises of a ride home in the morning (and not to mention means of keeping my mind off of my trauma.) or how after spending my last $10 at the bar i would consistently rely on my ability to give a peep show of the same body that was violated a year ago for a free shot of tequila that burned all the way down and a grimy slice of lime.
or maybe it's because despite it being over 365...366...367...too many fucking days since his filthy hands and body introduced itself to mine uninvited, despite not 1 but 2 police reports, despite 5...6...7...endless calls with victims advocates, despite 1...2...who knows how many failed semesters, despite 1 too many failed suicide attempts....
i was still raped.
That day when I sighed
Holding the hand of my love
And closing my eyes...
The cracks on my wall - yellow and pale
Took me on a journey where I inhaled, memories.
The hands that held me too tight,
Like the walls enclosing me in my sight,
And as they walk nearer to me
I could feel the paint, the mould, the cement..
And as I inhaled it, it was too much, too near,
Taking away something very dear,
My respect lay in shards and every piece I collected pierced my heart.
There was no where to go,
No lanes to escape in to, no boats to row
Through this river drowning me,
Taking me away from the shore
The walls now a part of me
And I hanged like a picture for the world to see
Admire or sympathise, tragedy or lies,
Everyday I breathed the same fear and cries...
Till I was dropped one day
The frame no more allowed to stay
The pieces I picked, my dignity a broken stick,
My soul, a paper with words written all over
Till I reached..
I reached a cliff where my tragedies were only a whiff of air,
And my soul was not my own
But expanded and stretched by a force unknown
With my scars displayed as stars
And I the sky, too high to be touched
Too beautiful to be enough
For my stories to be told
And my scars to unfold
For the world to see, forever.
This is not a poem about sexual assault.
This is not a poem about you taking everything from me.
This is not a poem about you taking the little girl I was once and forcing her to see how terrible the world can truly be.
This is not a poem about you taking my 4.0 GPA and shoving it under your bed with the remnants of my underwear.
This is not a poem about you taking the comfort out of physical affection.
This is not a poem about you pretending not to hear me when I begged you to stop.
This is not a poem about me pretending to fall asleep so I could pretend like I didn't remember it happened again.
This is not a poem about you blaming the alcohol.
This is not a poem about you blaming me.
This is not a poem.
eyes on face
lingering, calculating, wondering
"she's pretty i suppose"
voice in ear
sour, demanding, violent
"dance with me"
fingers on cheeks
holding, cradling, squeezing
"let's get out of here"
hands on thighs
burning, clenching, scraping
"how about it?"
hands on body
roaming, taking, violating
"c'mon darling don't be like that"
Please put gloves on
before you touch me
grab them off the counter
plastic dripping yellow
wet from dishwashing
I don't mind
the creaking sound
of plastic trying to stick
to my skin
your touch is dangerous
too full of his memory
no longer can anyone
please put gloves on
to protect you
to protect me
"I made a product for men"
My Father's words resonated in my head
What did he mean by "product"?
My seven year old mind
tried to put it together
like a puzzle
I couldn't quite put the pieces together
I left my father's words
scattered on the floor that day
Ten years later
you crawled out of the darkness into my soul
you took my dignity that night and
my mind couldn't help but drift
to the grocery store
ten years back
where my father told the cashier
that he had made a "product" for men
The seven year old me
picked up the words
my father spit out,
not knowing what they would
one day do to his little girl
I put them together
each piece fit perfectly
I knew exactly what my father meant by "product" now
that's precisely what I was to you
something to be used
for your satisfaction
I was to be submissive
to the male
"dont disappoint him"
I was held captive
in my own body
a body that was now in your possession
you used me carelessly
left me dry
nothing could be planted in me and flourish anymore
Somehow what you did to me
what you made me do
over and over again
until it was ideal for you
I am a product
that is what I was made to do
I was meant to be used by you
over and over again
I wish I could feel less hate in my heart.
For those women who I steal pieces from.
I wish the envy I felt was left somewhere behind me
But instead it’s buried far too deep inside me.
Like the woman who dresses so dirty and raw that I send mean words across the hall
Like the lady who looked too snidely at me, and her lover for years I played other woman
Like each gentle dame who steals the heart of a man I can no longer eye. So I instead poison my thoughts with hate and a prying mind
My own hate. My own self hate projects.
I hate who I am, and yet I expect my sisters to not offend what so little I feel I offer. I am aware so painfully of every mistake I make. How come they don’t make any?
If perhaps my heart wasn’t left behind with every man I tried to capture
I wouldn’t be so flat when prodded in the chest.
My father stole half and left me cold and weak, (though that part of me had been diseased for years)
If perhaps I wasn’t left deemed inadequate by the first man I ever loved- I would have been more accepting of the praise that followed my stride for perfection. My chase and race toward the dark whole which consumes me.
I will never be like them. But I am part of them.
I’ve never felt human
When speaking of souls I imagined mine from a distant cloud across time.
“You aren’t like them- and they can’t understand” I would say
And just hoped my pain would fade away
But the farther you get from a slam to the head
And the more time with people who don’t hurt you in bed
It still hurts at night.
It still feels just a little too tight.
And my feet are too weak to walk sometimes. So I fall.
I have arms to catch me. But none of them have the scent of pine on them, or sawdust or grime.
Just flowers and honey and what I imagine is summertime. These are the women whose sisters I hate. Because I chase after what I never gained. The love of one who is unlike me. A man whose woman is me.