I'm Sorry

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I told my mom when you touched me down there.

You were only 7 and I was 8

so how were you supposed to know that it wasn’t okay?

--I mean, boys will be boys and it’s only in play

and if I really cared I would have said no

but when I said “no” you heard ‘go”

and when I said “please” you stuck your fingers inside me

thinking that I wanted more when all I wanted

was for you to stop.


I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I flirted with you.

You were 37 and I was 16

so what else was it supposed to mean

when I wanted to watch the Walking Dead?

I was so plainly showing that I wanted to be in my bed

with you inching closer,

your eyes on my lips

your hand on my hips

and my mind screaming “this is it”

and when your mouth touched mine I begged you to leave

--and, you did…

But some days I still can’t get your breath off my teeth.


I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I led you on.

We were both 16 years old

and I slept closer to you that night I got cold

--which meant I wanted your dick I guess

because you would grab my breast

and it hurt so much when you squeezed too hard

then you moved my hand down and that was hard

so I did what I thought I was supposed to do…

But that wasn’t good enough for you

--so your pants were pulled low and my head was pushed down

and you tried not to make a sound because people were around

and I shook so hard my teeth scraped

so you threw me off with disgusted hate

--and, I cried.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about that night.

I was 17 and in another state

walking home alone and thinking I was safe and…

And wearing a dress.

A dress cut so low you could see the top of my chest

--but, he couldn’t see the front of me

when he pushed me down on my hands and knees

and I couldn’t see him when I heard the cocking of a gun

even as he stuck his cock, in

and I knew if I turned to look I would be shot

so I let him have his way and when he was done

I became the used piece of gum my Sexual Education had warned me I’d become.


I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I allowed this to happen.

I’m 19 and I’m messed up

and I don’t know who to trust or what to tell

so the only one left battling these demons

is, myself.

And there are millions of girls feeling the same way

fighting the same battles every, day

--and we commit suicide

because even though that night we didn’t want to die

today we feel that justice is a lie

as we watch the men who caused those permanent scars

do probation, or three months behind bars.

And if we tell others we’re asked what we wore

and I’ve been told that I’m a whore

for allowing their degradation of my body

when I so obviously…

had the power to stop it.

So it’s my fault their faces haunt my dreams

and it’s my fault I need to practice how I scream

--because if I don’t scream right I just want attention

and if I become pregnant then there was no real rejection

and if I trade jeans for a skirt then I can’t blame him for wanting to admire the work

and, violating... me.

It’s my fault.

And I’m sorry.

This poem is about: 
My country
Our world


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