trigger warning: sexual assault; the world
This is a post about Brett Kavanaugh.
This is a post about Donald Trump.
This is a post about the man who put his penis in my hand when I was fourteen – doesn’t matter that I drank enough to puke and pass out. Black out. It doesn’t matter that I was a railway disaster or that my hormones were waking me up in grown up ways I was too young to manage.
It doesn’t matter.
This is a post about me having sex when I was too young even though I don’t regret it because that boy still is one of the big loves of my life and to this day having him be my first still feels like it gives our relationship more credence.
This is a post about a craving between my legs I mistook for being ready to invite someone between them.
This is a post about being a cock tease for the way I’d grind my hips against them, then freeze the moment it was going to happen.
This is a post about all those times I did it even though it didn’t feel good, not understanding why it didn’t feel good when everything up to that point had felt like heaven.
This is a post about the times I did it when I didn’t know how to say no.
This is a post about the times it got done even when I did.
Everything on my body is ringing right now. Twitching. Fluttering. Spasming so that I am hyper aware of my right calf, my left earlobe, the bits of banana clinging to my gum line. When I sit down I feel the scar on the back of my thigh where the tumor was removed from my sciatic nerve. When I lie down I feel the nerves passing through each vertebrae, nerve roots branching down and down, live wire after live wire everywhere from deep inside to fingertip. My skin is ragged and ravaged, steel wool scars on velvet lambskin.
This is just how boys are, this is just how sex is, what did you expect to happen, but there is no such thing as rape culture. I’m making him feel bad, making them feel bad, nobody wants to be accused of something that just happens sometimes, though in this case it for sure didn’t hand to God.
This is me not being sure if we can call this or this or this or this assault because everyone knows girls lie about it all the time. What about false rape claims they jump out from behind bushes to ask, and also do you know the statistics are made up too? Sometimes girls get regret mixed up with violence. I mean, you know how girls are wink wink.
I’m supposed to keep my legs closed even though I am filled – filled – with wanting, until you pry them open to satisfy your own. This is the way it is supposed to be.
But also none of it happened, and you are lying. You weren’t even there, and if you were, why? What were you thinking?
What was I thinking?
I don’t know. What was I thinking? I was thinking that my body feels so good sometimes. So good that I am ashamed of myself for wanting anything this good. That I wonder why we do anything else besides feel this good.
I wish I could feel good right now, but my body feels everything but. I shake and I jangle, taking breath after deep breath because that’s supposed to be calming. My heart pounds and my ears ring and I swear to god the sun is to bright even though I’m in my bedroom with my eyes closed. Cars are too loud and my cat is too loud and my mind is too close.
This is a post about survival.
This is a post about having to survive.
This is a post about watching every channel, every song, every thing be a reminder of the time that I was there, that I do remember, that I didn’t lie.
This is a post about believing them, because I know.
This is a post about watching who I can trust, and who doesn’t care about what this vile disfigurement of everything good is doing to us all.
image: some rocks on a log on a beach. i don’t know.
I see you.
Thank you, love. I’m glad you’re here.