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?





The Rapist.












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