We were in his room, after the party.
Lights dim.
A few drinks in and everything was warm and smoothed over.
Then this moment quickly punctured by supposedly sweet whispers that felt like barbed wire.
"Trust me."
"Oh, come on."
"Don't you love me?"
His hands pushed me back.
WARNING: it's that time again, time for another rape poem.
The audience sighs, just back on their seats.
"Oh boy," You say, "These bitches are about to go on.
On about the rape and pain.
And 'No. I said no. He didn't listen.'
And you ask why another rape poem?
Didn't I just hear like three of these?"
Yeah.
You probably did.
Unsurprisingly in a country where someone is sexually assaulted every two minutes.
But surprisingly these people get shit for telling their stories.
They are all lumped into one category.
"Rape poems."
As if trauma is a trope, pianation a cliché,
All while you sit back and ask why so many damn rape poems.
We wouldn't need so many damn rape poems if America had listened the first time.
These poems are our prayers to beat the fucking odds in this country.
Of apple pie and roofies.
We wouldn't need so many damn rape poems if our bodies were OURS alone.
We wouldn't need so many damn rape poems if everyone knew what NO meant.
We wouldn't need so many damn rape poems if Budweiser stopped selling our bodies stretched across a six pack.
And maybe we wouldn't need to write so many damn rape poems if everyone would listen to this one!
But it seems to us that this lessons have yet to be learned.
Don't tell me she was sober enough to make a decision.
Don't tell me she was asking for it.
Don't tell me to pity him for making him face consequences.
You complain about another rape poem but this is all part of a culture.
Rape poems will continue.
Until I can wear whatever the fuck I want without being called a slut.
Until I can trust my drink with somebody when I need to take a piss.
Until I can walk alone on dark streets and not be a cat call.
"Who's you daddy?"
"Get back over here!"
"Damn look at that ass!"
Until I can wear heels without being asked who I'm trying to impress.
Until my voice speaks louder than my outfit.
Until I'm not expected to carry pepper spray on my key chain.
Until No really means NO.
Until rape means crime.
Until woman means human.
The rape poems will continue until there is no damn material left.
