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 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 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 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 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
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.