My sexual assailant has no idea that he is guilty.

He does not wear a big scarlet letter on his clothing.

If you search his name in the mandatory database of registered sex offenders, you will find nothing.

He was never told to feel badly for taking part of me away, and for years, that killed me inside.

He planted a bitter seed in me the day he put his hands on me, and by being angry and sad about it, I allowed that seed to flourish, thus letting him take more away from me.

But enough became enough when I was fifteen years old and I decided that no one person is important enough to destroy part of me.

I ripped that bitter seed out by the roots and I myself grew and flourished.

I finished out my second year in high scool, continued cheerleading, got a job,

I lived.

I found out that beyond every awful thing, there is life.

And I wasn't angry anymore; I used the heat of my rage to warm my fingertips in the Wisconsin winters.

At seventeen years old, I no longer feel as though my body is a collateral war zone.

It is my home, and rather than burn it down, I will hang vibrant curtains in the windows and paint it my favorite color.