Dare.

7 Feb

I’m super nervous about putting this poem up. It’s risky for me to put something like this online, where people can see it, including my family. But I have to do it. It’s like I’ve been overtaken by some new courage.

This isn’t a drama poem, like some of my pieces are. Every line is one hundred. Percent. Freaking. Real.

The other thing I have to do is thank Dante Basco, for being an awesome poet and drawing this out of me. Dante’s poem Where Are You From? inspired me to actually use my wordpress account and put something up here. This isn’t even the poem I was going to post. I just wrote this. Five minutes ago. Thanks, Dante.

Introduction over. Poem begin.

 

Dare.

People tell me that they like my writing style,

even when I’m writing about something as sick & twisted

as sexual abuse.

 

At least…

that’s what I want to call it.

  Sexual abuse.

What every.

fiber.

inside of me screams to call it.

   Sexual. Abuse.

 

But then my instincts start shouting,

“No! No!

That’s not fucking sexual abuse.

It’s not even verbal abuse.

How dare you…

How DARE you call yourself an abuse survivor,

How DARE you call attention to yourself,

when there are people out there

who have been

raped, beaten, tortured, molested and killed.

And you call yourself abused.

 

And then I bubble up to the surface,

me,

thinking,

working,

at… healing,

and I say to myself,

“that’s exactly the kind of

you’re-a-crybaby, overreacting, tattletale crying bitch you’re worthless who-do-you-think-you-are self-doubt they tried to plant in my mind”

and then I think about what their words

have done to me

fucked me up

Ripped me to shreds

It’s like they were always inside my head, raping me

–if that makes any sense–

      still inside my head, still raping me

still polluting me

–polluting myself–

and how is a rape joke not abuse?

a million rape jokes,

all directed at me–

talking about my female parts like

they’re discussing the weather

suggestions, demands

relentless

obscene

pawing at my skull

Every memory etched into my mind

like glass

sharp

 

“What if I had a knife?”

“What if I had a curling iron?”

“Some stripping would be nice, too.”

“Let’s play with each other.”

“I had sex with you while you were sleeping.” (Oh my God, am I pregnant?)

“A-cup.”

“Fat.”

“A freak in the bed.”

“What if you just took off your shirt?”

“What if I ran into the ocean right now?”

and I remember the words

the words that hurt

and I feel my ribcage suffocating me

and the murky gray water inside me

polluting me

filling me

and I want to sleep

I let them rape me to sleep

a candy warapper on the floor

two

six

pants

shirt

I crawl into a T shirt and soft pajama pants

thinking,

          abuse. fucking abuse. fucking rape inside my head.

          and so what if they didn’t actually touch me?

          that was part of their game.

              Wasn’t it?

              Wasn’t… it?

 

“She’s paranoid.”

“You’re making it up.”

“I was just joking.”

as if a rape joke could be

really be

“just joking.”

“When a guy says that, he’s never joking.”

That’s what my cousin said.

I want to believe him

I want to

comfort

to comfort myself

console, relieve

“It’s okay,

you’re a survivor.”

            a survivor of what?

No validation

I know, I know

–they were perverts, but so?

the voice in my head–

after all that,

even after all the memory,

she says,

(vicious teeth

blood dripping down her chin

as I bite into my own heart

rip out a chunk)

she still says:

 

“How DARE you.

Crying bitch;

How DARE you.”

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One Response to “Dare.”

  1. dantebasco February 7, 2013 at 6:15 pm #

    Good poem… I’m not the best with critiques, I often feel some art just needs to be done… Some poems need to be written. But I feel your pain and torment in the piece. I’m glad I inspired you to write more… You just inspired me to write more too.

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