I associate that word with disgust.
When his repugnant breath whispered in my ears,
It is going to be painful, but you’ll love it
I believed him.
Is it then rape, if I consented?
When his stubby thick fingers ripped me apart,
he told me the blood I saw was just
my sweet little cherry pop.
Could I then cry rape, if I consented?
When he told me to go on my knees,
And to close my eyes because I was scared.
He told me,
Just wait till the ending.
I heard his breath go as heavy and fast
As my heart.
And then it all stopped;
My tears blended with his lot.
Could it then be said that I consented?
When I spat in horror as he cleaned up.
Did I not consent when that same hands,
Pressed my cheeks together and kissed me –
Did you like it, my love?
Was it then consent? If I looked at him and
Were my tears not enough,
was the blood not enough,
was the pain not enough?
For him to realise that,
I did not like it.
For what was I thinking?
It was my fault, you might be assuming.
Deep in love,
What would I have known, at only fourteen?
How can you say that it was NOT rape,
When I went home that day, covered in shame?
How can you say that it was NOT forced,
When I am haunted by those images
And the pain they caused?
You will never know what I felt –
The amount of times I soaked my body,
To scrub out the filth.
The mirror will never be the same –
It reflects the person who humiliated
Her parent’s name.
How could she be so foolish?
His gigantic hands on her pubescent body.
She will never be the same –
Her lips will never open up again.
The doctors call it vaginismus –
Psychological trauma? Nun-complex, they called it?
It is the fact that he’s not sorry.
Why should he be, she was a willing party.
But why don’t you realise?