The first time it happened I was 5 I was lured by candy as children are All I can remember is hands and pain And being told to not remember And I when I speak on it All I can hear is familial silence And stares that tell me to not speak up at all When CPS came knocking on the door I covered for him. My mom asked me why Why I didn’t tell her all these years My response was simple: I did the first time it happened It continued still, you were drunk after all I wasn’t the first he did it to And I’m sure I wasn’t the last It’s weird to tell people to not joke about ****** It’s weird to tell people my first experience was when I was five It’s weird to tell people I remember It’s weird to pretend I don’t
The second time it happened I was 15 With my first ever boyfriend I was out cold, and he did as he did I don’t remember much, but this He’s checked my pulse and he bragged For months I didn’t realize what happened I could not register what it was I told my mom, I could see she blamed me I could see trust wane in her rise I could tell she didn’t see it how it hurt me I was 15 and asleep He was 16 and awake And somehow I blame myself It’s weird to tell people I still love him It’s weird to tell people I forgave It’s weird having to tell people it wasn’t my fault And it’s weird losing friends over it
Third time it was with my boyfriend again I wasn’t asleep I wasn’t a child I was scared He held me still I said no but he didn’t know I was serious Tears slipped out of my eyes I froze in terror I cried for hours afterwards I knew what it was, he knew what it was I blame myself. I told him no. No. No. No. Now I flinch when someone touches the back of my head I am wounded It’s weird to tell people it happened again It’s weird I still love him after all of it It’s weird to forgive again It’s weird
They were hundreds of times between Of men touching what they weren’t supposed to Of I’m making comments about me Coercing me Making me a part of their perversions Of believing flirting is ticket for their ****** harassment Of making me instinctively hate men. Victim blaming Degrading Sexualizing I am yet a woman It’s weird to not be a woman It’s weird to be a talking point It’s weird to be silenced It’s weird.
anxiety-riddled, my head is a constant battle of sounds and feelings crashing like waves into each other; interference scares me. as does being out of rhythm, missing too many beats — i am conflict-averse but i am also realistic:
i know that sound travels faster through solids and liquids than through the air, can be distorted and interfered into oblivion— that when push comes to shove, whisper networks can only reach so far.
scores of screaming matches between metoo advocates and r#pist apologists crescendos of nails scraped across a board feel a bit too familiar like listening to white noise and broken records on repeat while scrolling through toiletpaperworthy nonapologies witnessing victims collectively crying in an orchestra of agony and then be blamed for attention-seeking at best, of causing their own suffering at worst.
although it pains me to listen to these tragic tunes, it is amusing how so many mishear this collective choir as survivors celebrating with silly receipts in cancel parties serving blistering hot tea sweetened by revenge - no
all this is anything but cathartic.
it’s to make people aware that the same melodies are sung or screamed by those who suffered similar pains and so that those of a similar frequency know there are those who listen that their voice matters and we are not alone.
orange sweater with wrinkled sleeves it fits you perfectly. it looks like it was taylored to your measurements perfectly i bought it about a year ago let you wear a part of me i felt safe in worn proudly you are the boy that i thought would never i painted a picture of you in my head in which you were perfect i had sculpted each pore perfectly placed each thread of your hair on your head but i guess i must have done something to mess up because the perfect picture i painted dripped with wet unset paint on top of me suffocating, i couldn’t move i could only see your chest covered in the stupid orange sweater tongue deep down my throat with your hand on my neck your face is dripping on mine this wasn’t who you were supposed to be it hasn’t been longer than a week but the days drag on years and pull on gods ears and beg for more time to pass but less and less goes by never ending i feel like i’m stuck im in an artblock your face is gone but it was just there i must have misplaced the brush that i drew your short eyelashes with whimpering you are but why, was it something i did? my paint brushes are all intact and my workspace is clean how could i have messed up the painting with the orange sweater delicate brown eyes and thick bleach hair is dripping off the canvas i haven’t done much other than wait for you to dry our before i can add more on to you but you won’t dry and you’re on top of me my neck is wet with the saliva you won’t stop touching me no i said i would take a break from this canvas but it’s encasing me i cannot leave i messed up havent i wonder why i did to deserve this im using my fingers to put your streaky smile back in place don’t look at me like that please i have to ask for you to leave i cannot stand the shade of orange you’re wearing being on top of me please leave im letting you out to dry
in the same position i can’t move my neck is casted by guilt i must have done something wrong looking back that couldn’t have been you it must have been the wrong medium your acrylic is dry and patched you couldn’t have torn me down like the thin canvas dripping with trauma filled sweat no because you would never let yourself wear something mine while you took myself from my own body right? youre the boy i painted over and over in my head just to get you right hold my hand let’s go for a walk hold me tight because the wind against my cheek causes a shiver down my spin lift my head up to glance at the intentional light because you know i’m scared of looking down at the petrifying dark but you burned my eyes and i am no longer mine the painting is ruined and i can’t fix it but that’s not who i planned for you to be you would never do that because i don’t mess up the watercolor goes on thick paper while you go on premeditated canvas was it me? have i misread but i do not misread i am not an idiot it’s not my fault you chose to do this yet i cant not feel this in my chest im a failed artist with a body stolen in disgust i want my orange sweater with wrinkled sleeves back
I want you to hold me tight and feel my muscles tense up I want you to caress my face and watch as I force myself to stay I want you to touch me until I start to shake I want you to feel my body shutter beneath your hand I want you to know how much I crave you and how sick it makes me feel
Song recommendation: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4MykIsbNSI