People have told me a lot of stories about rape.
They’ve told me how to be careful when I walk alone at night,
And how men in trench coats come out of dark alleys.
They’ve told me to kick them in the groin and run,
To scream for help.
People who can calmly tell you how they were almost caught,
How a stranger followed them down a sidewalk and made a grab,
And how they fought back and won.
How the offender’s in jail and their life is back on track
how happy they are.
But no one talks about how they didn’t fight.
About how they took it,
Lying in a bed with so many stuffed animals that they thought it was full.
How they can’t hate the one who hurt them,
And you can still care about him.
How he’s different when he’s sober,
And you don’t want anyone to judge you at fault.
But going home and going to bed aren’t safe anymore,
And when you wake yourself up screaming in nightmares and he comes to comfort you,
That you’re only more alone.
It’s not a wound that heals
or a fight that you can win with pepper spray.
It’s confusion and blame and disgust,
And four hour long showers with raw skin
Because you will never get him out.
Wondering how anyone could love you
knowing that he already has.
The broken toy and bruised spirit
that everyone says they want to be fixed
But can’t risk trying.