Annie Coleman Feb 19

So many words and tears have been wasted on you
You, the man, that probably has forgotten my face by now
So many hours of self pity and hatred have I felt because of you
You, the man, who shaped me into who I am right now

And not too long ago, I was driving in the car, and my lover he suggested,
(Excuse me if these words appear harsh),
We need more intimacy in public
Let's fool around, we're young.
I would say we could fuck in a dressing room but...
I know what happened to you in there


I nodded along and then I stopped myself, and I said,
Darling, why not?

That is the moment I realized
I am stronger than my past.
That is the time that I recognized
I had been holding on too long.
It's time to let go
Of what you did to me
And what you took from me
Because I am stronger than that.
I am stronger than you.

Olive Waverly Jan 31

It was the year of undiscovered bodies and vanilla cupcakes
We dined on both behind the wall in the alleys
He had rough hands and translucent fingers
He molded himself on to me as if we were trying to finish a complicated puzzle
The first time he called me beautiful I was 15
The second time he was 24
he saw me as a young girl but yet still treated me as if I was a woman
the first time he unzipped me I feel onto the floor in a pile of mini skirts and insecurities
The purest his hands had ever caressed.
My skin felt like ice under the warmth and heat of his fingers
I was not in love with him, but I had love for him
he was the gentle nudge over the cliff of sexuality
the night of my 16th birthday was the last time he unzipped me
this time I didn't fall
2 weeks after that my mother had found the love notes he scribbled for me that I hide under my bed.
It would be 4 weeks until I saw him again
his hands were still rough but his fingers had lost their translucence
what once was ten tiny galaxies emitting from his earth palms
were now black holes
I looked in the eye's of the man who taught me how to do grown up things whilst still wearing my little girl uniform
He took my freshness and turned it into mold
He took my youth and turned it into vivid memories
and for that
I thank him.

Paige Chevalier Dec 2016

Your fingers burned me
So when they asked me for proof
I lifted up my dress.
They dusted my thighs for
Fingerprints
Like they would a burglary.
They told me to explain again
What had happened.
I told them  how you
Pried me open like
The doors of a
Closed convenience store
Gutted me like an
Abandoned house
Left me for dead like
A deer after the
Headlights
They said there was
Nothing
They could do
I told them how you
Emptied me like
An alcoholic at the bar
After years of sobriety
Stained me like
The glass windows
In your church
Broke me like
The mirrors you
Can't bare to look into
Anymore
Anymore
Anymore
I can't look in the mirror
Anymore
They asked me for proof
So I lifted up my dress
They dusted my thighs
For fingerprints
I swear were there
I see them
The third degree burns
Covering my legs
My neck
My chest
I told them how
You made me into a
Museum of art
I don't want to be a part
Of
You made me into a
Museum of mosaics
And tragedies
And other broken things
I told them how
You made me into
Railroad tracks
That I lie on and
Wait for a train
That never comes
I told them about
the burns you kissed
into my skin
the blisters that
throb and
pulse
like the heartbeat
I used to have
They asked me for proof
So I lifted up my dress
For fingerprints I swear
Were there
They dusted my thighs
Like the crime scene
They were
Like the crime scene
They are
They asked me if
I had any other proof
I told them about the
Flashbacks
About how any hands
On me feel like your
Hands
About how you
Stripped me
Both physically
And mentally
About how I begged
You to stop
About how you didn’t stop
They said there was
Nothing
They could do
They said they were
Sorry
I said
Me too

Amanda Sep 2016

I am barely one millimeter tall
dragging my body limp across
the sidewalk and I try my best not to make eye contact any contact
with those glaring flashlights rising from the dead off their hard-helmeted heads
I'm still trying to keep mine twisted at one-hundred-eighty degrees
but stuck in the bulls-eye of a man-made hurricane    I wouldn't mind hearing a snapping neck any neck.

One of the hell-bent helmets removes itself to reveal a heavy-set sweating neck
the girl on a skateboard and I recoil synonymously at the sight of too many men too tall
it's seventy-five out but it's beginning to feel negative twenty degrees
I walk as quickly as my frost-gnawed legs allow me to move across
this soup line but they're feeding the wrong kind of hungry who wait for their dirty coins to flip heads
to see who goes first to play tackle-the-red-flags with little girls and the rules don't prohibit contact.

I can't imagine these helmets in human form not even when they ask for my number to keep in contact
I think of the time I was sent home for possessing tempting shoulders and a somehow sultry neck
all I see are claw machines and me, a come-here-doll, resisting the balance being ripped from my head
I forget about pacing myself on the ledge of this concrete just so I can stand tall
I hear the voice of an ex-friend who moved across
town tell me that you "just have to be smart", but you don't learn morals from earning degrees.

I'm thinking about the degree
of which it would mean if I were to reverse the prey predator roles and dare to make contact
blood sharing the same bed with safety sparks a flame across
my brain, I don't want to imagine trembling while holding this pocket knife over the apples of their necks
but I am a no choice girl because every time my mother calls she warns me that I'm not tall
enough to even chop the branches from their heads.

The fifth one in line yells something at me about giving head
silently I measure the trajectory of getting the hell out of this corner the exact angle the degree
what lie is there to tell that is tall
enough that they won't be able to see the panic beneath my contacts
I swat away the possibility of nearby lips staining bruises onto my neck
I keep the idea of my big-knuckled boyfriend like pepper-spray in my back pocket waiting at the street across.  

Hey bitch, you seem a little cross
you shouldn't dress the way women dress to turn heads
one day you might make a man break his neck.
It finally began nearing seventy-five degrees
again as I fumbled through my contacts
dialed the first boy I knew, doubling as the tallest.  

I'm on the acceptance stage of mourning the fact that I'll never be tall enough to come across as mean when I come in contact
with non-human beings willing to burn holes in the back of girls heads at four-hundred degrees, who put their rapist trophies on the back-burner as long as it means getting some neck.

y Jun 2016

I don't think about him or the fear he ignited in me but when I see his face
Why do I have to keep seeing your face?
Every feeling comes back
Fear
Self blame
Confusion
I feel so small
Your eyes and mouth were enough to push me into a dark abyss
I have the need to cover my skin
Like if it's my responsibility to make sure my body doesn't provoke you
I have the need to hide who I truly am
Like it's my responsibility to make sure my personality doesn't provoke you
I know it's not my fault but can you blame me?

Seeker Jul 2016

Dad,

       I told you about my friend who was raped
       I said she was only eighteen
       I said she was scared and didn't know who to talk to
       I told you she felt sad and unsafe
       "She was raped by her manager"
       "He gave her an STD and doesn't know what to do"

       You told me she had it coming
       You told me she deserved it
       You called her a slut and a hooker
       You said she was immature and naive
       You said her parents must not be there for her

But dad, that friend was me

       I was raped at eighteen
       I am scared and have no one to talk to
       I am sad and feel unsafe
       It was my manager
       He gave me chlamydia and I don't know what to do

And dad, you're wrong

       I didn't have it coming
       I didn't deserve this
       I'm not a slut or a hooker
       I'm not immature or naive

Except, dad, you're right about one thing

       My parents aren't there for me

Seeker Jul 2016

Dear dad,

       You said it's always the female's fault if she's ever raped. You said they ask for it. You said they deserve it. You said females shouldn't expect anything less at night.

       Well dad, I was raped. I was eighteen and it was my manager. I never asked for this. He said we would just have lunch together. Yes dad, it was in the middle of the day. I was just being nice. I was just trying to make a new friend at work.

       But dad, I was stripped of my clothes and my dignity. I was forced to do something that I didn't want to do. I said stop. He didn't listen. I started crying, and all he said was "shhh."

       So dad, your youngest daughter was raped at eighteen. I'm the only child you have left and I was raped. I am your daughter. I am your priority. I am your dependent. I am your blood. I am your family. I am your little girl but I disagree with you. I didn't deserve this, I never asked for this, and this is certainly not my fault.

       But you'll never know. Because I could never tell you.

annelise Jul 2016

NOVEMBER 2, 2013
When I was fifteen I was molested by the man I used to call a father.
Not biological, though, so it ain't that bad, I thought
I was making up excuses about what happened that day in that hallway in that church in that depressive state that I was in with my mother in the other room but I didn't cry for help.
So it didn't happen.
I told myself I was crazy for thinking such a man could do such a thing to a girl, his little girl, his daughter he never had, like I was the one that needed to justify why I didn't say anything in the first place.
For three years my mind was ridden of that day, that special day for him, the day I was vulnerable enough to let him take full advantage of me, untouched, innocent, and a virgin in a place that I used to call a sanctuary.
But he's a man of God.
But he's a man of Grace.
Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it wasn't his fault that he held me close, groped my breast, pulled me in, and moaned his filth in my ear.
Maybe it was an accident that he manipulated me in to thinking this was normal, that all preachers do this, that all men do this, that all men of religion do this because he loved me.
Because he loved me.
Because God loved me.
I was alone. At least, I thought I was. That was the last time I saw him, my sorry excuse for a friend, but the text messages he kept sending to me were pulling me in and making me feel even more crazy like he only did it because he cared, so why would I tell anyone?
He's too respected.
He's too loved by the many children who don't know that monsters aren't hiding under their bed but they hide in their houses, in their schools, in their church.
He's a man of God.
A man of faith.
A man of "Hail Mary's" and "Our Father's" yet he touches" Our Father's" daughters without the consent, some of us too young to even know what that word means.
He touched me in the name of God, he groped me in the name of my Lord, he moaned his sins into my ear, and tainted the house that Jesus Himself blessed me in when I did my communion, my confirmation, when I confessed all the bad things I did even though I was a teenage girl, prepubescent, and I didn't even know what sex crimes were.
But theres something funny about this whole thing.
See, people are so quick to blame God, to blame my Savior Jesus Christ, as if they're the ones who sent this man down and took possession of my perpetrators body so he could possess mine.
So stop blaming religion. Because it's not God the Father, or Jesus Christ or Catholicism, or even "men" in general that are hurting girls like me, so pure at heart just looking for an outlet because hormones and mental disorders take advantage of us.
Psychology says this man has a mental disorder himself.
Pedophilia is considered a "sexuality".
So if he has a mental disorder then how come he couldn't sympathize with me when I was going to kill myself, ready to jump off that ledge just to make my mind stop because it was racing all the time and I couldn't even talk to people anymore and I couldn't even tell people what was wrong because I didn't even know what was wrong.
"Suck it up. People have it worse."
That's what he told me, trying to make me vulnerable make me break down at his feet so that I wouldn't scream when he violated me.
And I couldn't even tell my mom that bad man ever touched me.
Because she was in the next room, I didn't want to disturb her, or have to explain, "Mommy, it's not your fault you left me alone. You didn't do this to me. Don't blame yourself. I love you."
He took away my innocence that day. ,
Since then, I've learned that the devil comes in many forms.
But I promise, he doesn't come in the form of a church.

Annelise Ebell (C) 2016
Clementine Eleos Jun 2016

I can count the number of times my body has been violated on both hands,

But I need both hands to do so, though and while that might sound horrible,
I've grown to know that saying "no" does not mean "stop" to someone who insists on trying,
what I've learned is that my body was never mine to begin with,

I grew sick with a task of delivering pleasure to someone else at the cost of myself and what I learned is that
waving that white flag cuts you open and
causes you to bleed on your white sheets
you already bleached stains out of twice that same week,

My body was never mine to begin with,

but I'm taking it back.

I'm stealing my body back from the fear that stole it every night I agreed to have sex to avoid getting hit.

I'm stealing my body back from every night I said no and you still did it.

I'm stealing my body back from the paralyzing thought of what people would think about how I got into that situation instead of why you did that to me in the first place.

I'm stealing my body back from the haunting, cemented, cold look on your face when you said "I do what I want"
I shrunk into my skin,
I swore I would never feel safe in my own bones again.

I'm taking my body back because it is mine.
I'm taking it from every person who stole it from me,
even if temporarily,
at ages 6, 9, 10, 14, 16, 18 and 19.

I'm taking it back for me this time.
It is not your temple or release.
It is not your garden or your sanctuary.
My body is mine to keep.

The Forgotten Poet Jun 2016

It's been over a year
Since you broke me to the core.
Took away my innocence
Because you wanted more.

Hoped I'd never see you
Or look into your eyes.
The eyes of a sadistic monster
That tore me down with lies.

Thought I'd never see those hands.
Hands that made me feel unclean.
Made me feel guilty for your sins.
The worst I've ever seen.

The memories don't go away.
Or the feel of your cold hand.
They keep me up awake at night.
A touch as rough as sand.

So, wow, okay. Um. Rape/sexual assault suck. Trust me, I know. It's been about a year since I was raped by a guy I was with at the time. I made the mistake of not telling anyone for almost 6 months. But when someone has that much control over you, you feel like there is nothing you can do anyways.
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