988 words (3 minute read)

Survive


cash or credit

to him

replying with

i love you

is like

paying with credit when

he only accepts cash.

he demands tangible compensation.

he desires golden dollars–

shiny girls whom he can

touch and feel and use.

he wants to

hold their faces

in his

greedy palms and

say with covetous eyes

you are mine.


affidavits of a rape victim

he will always live within me

like a twin absorbed in the womb

or the zika virus, rousing when

it comes time to bear children.


he will exist

in my memories,

in my voice when i say no,

in images of tall men with greedy fingers

locked in my hyper-vigilant gaze.


a former courter in a courtroom.

expression cold and eyes dead

as bullet casings,

immorality solidified

by medusa’s snakes.

his facade masks all

traces of culpability–

the lines which he made

and crossed with his

unwelcome touch.



he possesses

the remorselessness of

either sinner or saint,

his face an interrogation lamp

burning with suspicion.

with flushed cheeks,

i check

and recheck

the locks

on the door to my sanity,

smelling the sheets

for signs of a rat,

listening to the tapes

for sounds of consent,

recounting my steps

until I’m back where i started,

my virginity still intact.

i convict him

time

and time again.

he is guilty,

i mumble to myself.

he is guilty.

he is guilty.

he is guilty.

he is guilty.


yet

my compulsion

to confirm the crimes

proves as

insatiable as

the man who

committed them.

my fingers feverishly

transcribe my truths in

tangible form

so that they may become

concrete.

affidavits which

i compose for myself.

an affidavit.

an affidavit.

another affidavit.


only yes means yes

you claim that

staging a coup

against my sovereignty

was merely

a "miscommunication,"

a “misunderstanding.”

but the real

misunderstanding

lies in

believing the sincerity of your

sorcerous fabrications.

while

your soul

finds solace in the

teachings of narcissus,

my shuddering soul

spends its days

translating hexes into honesty.


i love you.

–actually meant–

i love your silhouette.


i want to spend the rest of my life with you.

–actually meant–

i want to spend the rest of this moment

ravaging your flesh.


i want to demonstrate

how much I love you.

–actually meant–

i will trespass

on your boundaries,

your innocent skin.


you are mine.

–actually meant–

i possess the deed to your body.


my soul has already wasted hours

rendering my words into

legions of languages

in search of opportunities for

misinterpretation &

determining if the spaces

between letters left room for

false impressions.

and let me tell you this:

rejection tastes the same

to every tongue.



i’m not ready for this!

–always means–

No!


wait!

–always means–

No!


stop!

–always means–

No!


No!

–always means–

No!


be not mistaken, he whom I have

banished from my queendom:

only yes means yes.


dear rapist

assaulting is awfully similar to

assassinating. they both begin with

an ass. an ass like you. and end with

an assignment to hell.


dear victim-survivor

remember that

you are

brave,

and believed

in the eyes of

those who

matter.

stay strong,

my love,

for things will

get better.

and above all,

heed these words:

your voice

holds a power

unrivaled

by the

sun.


[San] Andreas

lips like tectonic

plates–when they clash, oppressive

edifices fall


rise of the rape survivor

a mind tethered to trauma,

a spirit littered with lacerations.

Her stitches spell “RESOLVE ME”

under the magnifying glass.

Her scares spell “CASE CLOSED”

in the crystal ball.

the path to recovery snakes

through the Garden of Eden,

encircles the Tree of the

Knowledge of Good and Evil,

and travels through God’s

booming voice.

the Truth

She proclaims to mankind:

“HE TRESPASSED ON

SOVEREIGN SOIL!”

earth to earth, dust to dust–

wounds turn to flesh as Her

burdens turn to ashes.

a severed tether, a cradle of cinders–

Her psyche transcends

gravity.


mobilized for mutiny

we come from

the free bin

at garage sales,

from pink price stickers

fused to fetishized flesh;

we’re labeled as

“yours for the taking”

–worth less

for the labia

between our

thighs.

we are women–

worn down and written off

by large heads and

lecherous tongues.

we are warriors–

mobilized for mutiny,

wielding glass shards

scrounged from

broken ceilings

and distorted mirrors.

we are warlords–

owners of ourselves,

subservient to no one.

we will speak

when we aren’t spoken to.


more than your trauma

it may seem that selfhood is an illusion, if not a privilege for the lucky. but you must spurn the notion that you are nothing more than trauma’s carcass. like a vulture, scour the vestiges of your being for a semblance of untainted identity. string together the pieces of yourself that are unrelated to abuse – your authentic self – as well as embrace the aspects of yourself which trauma created – your acquired self. learn to love all of your component parts, even if that means coming to terms with your hybrid nature; begin to exist in the overlapping section of your identities rather than futilely attempt to establish residence in one or the other.

you, my dear, are an Arnold Palmer. you are half original and half trauma, but entirely human.


a promising prophecy

“boys will be boys”–an

epitaph on the tombstone

of our rape culture


Next Chapter: Flourish