My Experience

I never used to feel comfortable talking about this.
Come to think of it,
I still don't.
My anxiety still skyrockets and I grip my arms tightly through crossed arms.
I'm taking a Women's Literature course,
And I know this topic will be brought up frequently because it happens so often to women,
Men too but it's not as publicized.
So I'll just say the word I hate.
Rape.
I've told very few people my story,
Some tell me it's not technically rape because there was no penal penetration.
But his touch,
His hands,
The shoving my legs apart and silencing my "No"s and "Stop"s,
It was all unwanted.
But they call it attempted rape,
Because I wasn't beaten and the only bruises left were on the inside of my thighs,
Because it was only his fingers and not his penis,
Even if that is the only part of him that was directing him.
But let me tell you something,
When your boyfriend, who is 2 years older than your freshman self,
Forces his hand down your pants,
When you try to keep your legs together,
But he pries them open with strength you didn't know his scrawny arms could manage,
And he stands between them to make sure they won't shut him out,
When he tells you he would have made you gone further if he hadn't heard sounds of "pleasure",
Then it is not attempted.
It's succeeded.
Little does he know that the "pleasure" was really you trying to say,
"Don't touch me",
But it was muffled by his mouth that was clamped down on yours.
And let me tell you,
That I was embarrassed.
I am ashamed.
I am still hurt, although you cannot physically see it anymore.
I lied to my family the next day,
July 5th,
When they invited me to swim and I said no because I was "on my period",
"I don't like tampons", I told them.
I didn't want them to see my thighs.
I was terrified they would press charges and I would be the girl who cried wolf,
Because my predator was my boyfriend,
Not some crazy man on the streets,
I was terrified they would say, "Well, that's why you shouldn't date older guys",
But his intelligence and maturity are what had originally attracted me.
But most of all,
I was scared to tell the whole truth.
I didn't want my family to know that he continued to try to get in my pants while we were at school in the cafeteria.
His hand tried to slip past my belt,
Which I didn't need but he couldn't slide past it so it was more like a seat belt,
Preventing an accident waiting to happen.
I couldn't stand the thought of telling my family that I had to rub his hard on through his jeans,
He moved my hand,
I had no control.
If I didn't comply he would undo my belt, buttons, and zipper.
I didn't want to say any of this.
At the time,
I thought he truly loved me.
Thought every tender kiss was a gift that I needed to survive,
Like bottled water in a desert.
Even when I broke up with him,
I couldn't cut him out of my life,
I was scared he would do something if I did.
I stayed his friend for a year and a half after we broke up.
It's been 2 years now.
We don't talk.
But I think of him all the time.
When someone comes up from behind me,
When any of my significant others after him would kiss me,
I see his picture at school.
He's graduated and in a different state but he's still haunting me.
I quit my slam poetry team because they praised him,
Even when he wasn't physically there to praise.
I couldn't stand him being around me even more.
It's been 2 years.
I still don't forgive him.
I still haven't told my family this entire story.
I still haven't forgiven myself.
But at least now,
I don't feel the need to cut where the bruises on my thighs once were,
Because I am not the same person that he touched.
I am new.
I am beautiful.
And I am worth much more than the harassment I experienced.
My past will not define me,
But it has shaped me.