a poet's attempts at communication

***the boy in the graveyard

i've heard it all, is it really my fault?
that night in the graveyard that started it all
i was so afraid when you asked that week
if i had said "no" would you have hurt me?

did i enjoy it? Or did i tell myself to
and when i asked you to stop, why did you continue?
and when i shared all my fears to the people who supposedly care
it was suddenly my fault for tempting you there

people think my insecurities come from my weight
and although they aren't wrong, there is much more to say
all the places your hands touched me, they sting like a fire
burning my skin from your filthy desire

i shared to the pastor and told mom and dad
and they treated me like i was a fool to allow such an act
and immediately i regretted the decision to share
because now it was my fault that my body was bare

the shame still lingers inside of my bones
is it my fault for allowing his hands to roam?
but i was 14 and he 17, and he was 6'3 and i, 5'2
there wasn't much that young me could honestly do

he was strong and he made weapons
and he scared me quite a bit
his subtle threats gave me fear
so i complied to his demands without throwing a fit

the kids gave me strange looks
and whispered behind my back
because at a church, if a girl was touched
she was filthy as a rag

how is it that it was my fault—
at the age of 14—
that i was touched without consent?
what a toxic mentality!

i hate that i'm suddenly an awful girl
for being assaulted by a man
but the guy who assaulted me is suddenly pitied
because his "life is now ruined"

well, damn

it's always the victim's fault for being abused
it's always the victim's fault, and never the villain
now the victim hates herself, thanks to the shame that follows
but the villain is set free out of pity