What Happened

September 3rd


Maybe I'd always been broken inside. 

Perhaps the image I projected of myself was nothing but a wisp in the wind

An outspoken thought driven by false assumptions of myself. 

I had always believed that if I were ever in that situation

I would scream. I would fight back. I would cry for help.

Refusing to let them get away with even more cruel injustice. 


Maybe I'm not who I thought I was.

You never think it'll happen to you

Despite stories and statistics proving you wrong countless times. 

Since I told people I wasn't afraid,

I thought the saem image would be projected to

Everyone else I encountered.

I shouldn't have to think of violation at seventeen.


Maybe it was my fault. 

Why didn't I push away? Why didn't I say anything?

Why was my body refusing to move a muscle?

Why am I not living up to my own expectations?


In that moment, I felt void. 

A ragdoll.

An object. 

A pawn being defiled and violated in the name of another's vile


My biggest fear in that moment was the thought of going to sleep 

that night while he was still in my 



In that moment, I understood. 

How do you fight back?

He's an adult, I have no physical power over him. 

He's a family friend, it would be rude and disrespectful to start a scene.

He's a married man, how can I subject myself to being the one to ruin that

already fragile relationship?


In that moment, I grew fearful.

If I report it, I'll have to relive it all over again. 

My story will be twisted in front of my face

To the point that I might just have the audacity to believe it.

It was one in the morning, my head was fuzzy

And as time goes on

I lose sight of the dimensions and the exact motions used

And then I'll spiral again and think-


Maybe it was my fault. 

I was wearing a t-shirt without a bra

But I thought I was in the comfort of my own home. 

And he's a married man with a daughter.


Maybe I'd always been broken inside.

I rip my clothes off

Disgustingly throwing them as far away from my

foreign body as possible

I cannot bear to look at them

in fear of reliving it all over again

They continue to lay crumpled in a drawer

Gathering dust and crinkles to this very day.

I shower four times

Scrubbing raw in the places he dare lay a hand on

Eventually hoping that one day

I may claim them as my own again.


Maybe I'm not who I thought I was.

The silence stretches into a lifetime

I lay awake thinking about that night

and all the places that I

Collapse in on myself

I flinch when a hand brushes mine,

I fear it is him.

I no longer recognize balance, only my own


I pour.

I glow.

I burn.

Until I am numb and empty

yet on fire with every emotion at the same time.

Hours that feel like years meander by

Random images shoving me back to that unspeakable night.

It happens so much that the only way I can get out is to



~ eight hours after it happened

January 24th

Today I witnessed a boy grazing his hand over a girl's


My heart started racing

My knuckles clenched until white splotches blossom

And tiny crescent moon-shaped indents graze my palm

Breathing was out of my control

My vision blurry

Ears buzzing as if a thousand bees were flying at every angle

All in the span of moments that no one else could recognize.

What scared me most is that she enjoyed it.

What scares me is that I may never.


Touch is another barrier

A boundary too far crossed

I may never smile like she did.

It's more than flirtation

An alterior motive

A different narrative

I become the pawn once more.

Internally suffering,

Never knowing how to relieve myself of the phantom pain.

~ four months, twenty-one days 

after it happened

February 18th


My counselor told me the white knuckles and rapid breath qualify as a 

panic attack. 

And I'm going through a small dose of PTSD.

Now I fit into a category 

But it has hit me hard.

Having trauma drawn out to fill a third of a year

is so emotionally exhausting.

But I desire to get back the power I so desperately crave.

I'm optimistic for once.

I'm done with injustice.

I'm done with cruel jokes.

I'm done with being mocked into oblivion.

There will be good days and bad days 

But I refuse to let the bad days win.

~five months, fifteen days 

after it happened.

This poem is about: 



This is such a powerful peice and you're so strong having experienced such a traumatic thing. This may not mean much but you inspired me.

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