EVENTS #2 & #3
Violence isn't pretty.
It isn't romantic.
And this, too, was no exception.
Both events went something like this:
I can still remember the feeling of my best friend's hands
Along my body, exploring without permission.
The softness of his skin and the force he never used
Contradicts everything I thought I knew as rape.
It makes my skin crawl.
His sudden weight smothered any chance of rejection I could give.
The betrayal was a sucker-punch to the gut,
And I once again found myself in the role of an object
That sat like glistening crystal in a china cabinet.
A pretty thing waiting to be picked up and used.
Even when shrouded in dust, crystal has an interesting way
Of getting you to think of it as entrancingly beautiful.
The dust was being wiped off of me in that moment,
And I thought that it was cruel of whatever controls this universe
To break me down until I was compliant in
Trying to make everything stop, however I could.
Of course it never stopped.
I remember the popcorn ceiling of my dorm room.
Every single sharp point was like icicles through my heart.
The slated blinds imprisoned me in the feelings of misery and shame.
The upside down shadow jerked as he moved,
And with it my hope abandoned me.
The mattress below me was the only solid thing I felt,
My legs as viscous as grape jelly on a thick peanut butter sandwich.
The blanket covering my bed, purple with flowers. Made of faux-down.
I've tried to burn it twice now, and just can't bring myself to do it.
The images of my bystander-intervention posters mocked me to sleep,
Painfully reminding me that the Vice President of the group that advocates for
The prevention of rape was raped by the secretary of that group.
Raped. By the secretary. Twice.
How ironic.
The morning after, I cried.
I cried heavy tears of regret, of doubt, of guilt.
Heavy tears of self-blame.
If only I had locked my door,
I wonder if this would've happened if I was sober.
I showered.
My brown skin turned a blistering red,
And even under 3 layers of thick, bubbly lavender soap and
Tears that never stopped coming,
I still didn't feel clean.
I told him that what happened between us wasn't consensual.
His response still echoes around the empty cavern of my mind:
"I wish you would stop making me feel like a rapist."
YOU ARE READING
Picking Up The Pieces
PoésieAn anthology of poems written by me. The uploads will be in 2 parts. The Before is part 1, and The During and The After will be part 2. This is the story of my recovery from PTSD, An Eating Disorder, and Sexual Assault.
