We Are Bulletproof | 2

the power of consent [poem]

the power of consent

•∞•

She is fourteen when
her jacket is roughly caught
by the hood and slammed against
a brick wall, her eyes blurring and
throat clamping once she
realizes that in
this world, monsters do
not just exist in her nightmares.

She is sixteen when the room
makes her feel suffocated,
when a causal glide against
the open of her arm is enough to
send her back years into
a tunnel of screaming in
agony of the pure becoming
infected. 

She is eighteen when
her sleeves become longer and
touch is like needles piercing
into her nerves, 
lighting them on fire and 
making her want to crawl underneath
her very flesh. 

She is twenty when 
the world calls her names,
gives her excuses, 
makes her an excuse,
and glorify the horror of
her pain through slurs which
remind her of the intoxication of
his voice (his hands his touch his eyes).

She is twenty-three when
the chains, choking her down
like the arms that had pinned her
to a wall she wished didn't exist,
are unlocked by a gentle caress
that didn't make her want to
break apart again.

She is twenty-five when 
she is reminded of the beauty
of feeling when her baby boy
grasps her with the
tightest arms around her stomache
and says he loves her
(it is everything; new; loving).

She is twenty-nine when
she tells him that a woman
is a treasure,
as he is to her,
and to always (always always always)
treat others with respect because
all a girl ever wants is a little respect,
all a person wants is a little humanity.

She is forty when 
she finds men can be gentle,
accepts monsters exist
but so do knights and
princesses who are taught
to hold a sword, too. 

She is sixty when 
she sees the beauty of what
touch can do,
sees her eyes in a tiny angel
in a world where she had believed only
demons could lurk in shadows,
sees that open skies and
loving words are all she needs to
let go and fight for her sanity again. 

Because, really,
the princess learned to save herself 
in this one.

•∞•