Trigger Warning: Rape
You say you were raped when,
upon finding out you were queer, this boy decided you
had to be turned. Upon
finding out you were bleeding, decided he’d had
enough. You told your friends not to beat him up, finding
him and getting your bloody underwear back was good enough.
And you should have kept your mouth sewn shut about him,
held your fists clenched tight about him and,
just maybe, not lied. Stop making up stories, or they’ll be held
against you. Or— wait a second. Just
have to ask you, did it work? When he pressed himself against
you and tore you open: there’s just one question I have.
And so, did you enjoy it? Do you—
boy oh boy, do you like dick now? And
when are you going to kill yourself for trying to ruin the life of this poor boy?
II. THE END
When I was 18, I was raped at a
party, because the sex stopped being alright when
this boy I just met whispered threats in my ears. It was a party
until he found out I was queer and figured he alone could change this,
fuck me into believing that men/dick/men/he/dick/he was better, until
I was drunk enough to lose my bearings, be ripped open. Fuck
me into silence. Yet, no matter what the police said about drinking, I
didn’t cause it, I know after a year of reassurance, it was not my fault, and
no amount of Internet trolling can make me recant that I didn’t
want to be left bloody, not knowing where I was. No
amount of telling me I’m faking it could make me forget that I didn’t want
to be rendered unable to move, to get out of bed, for four days. The amount
of blood I shed may not compare to the tears I did, but to
deny me my narrative does you no good, for you deny the story of
a survivor who is now ok, who will be ok, whom history shall not deny.