While going to Columbia College Chicago, I got the courage to discuss issues that I had been dealing with over the years...



I wonder what you'd tell your daughter when she asks


 "Why are you going to jail?"


Would she hate me 

like you do?


Would she call me names?


I don't remember how old she is


but I wonder if she'd repeat your slip up.


"Daddy says that hoe is the reason he's not coming home."


Would she be chastised for it?


She knows nothing of how I trusted you, 




"Do you still want me to stop?"

you asked


like that shit was sexy.


How you left me traumatized


how you said it was my fault 


for not thinking you'd try again.


She'd only know that I was wrong cause her daddy said so.




She knows nothing of me


you aren't in jail.


And she doesn't have to worry about when she'll see you




I do.


I'm sure 

that makes you think that you weren't wrong.


But next time you see me

know that I spared you because of her. 

Blaming the Victim

It's never mattered that I said no

or that I pushed them away.


Their reasoning was and I quote "you were wet."

It had to be the signal to me wanting it.


That has always been some man's reason

for explaining away why he did things to me when I pleaded for him not to.


Like they thought my vagina must've had a need to  

be possessed


and their dicks had a stamp of approval.



“I just want to make you feel good.”


My voice wasn't good enough.

My body was on their side.

So it didn't matter if the rest of me followed.


It didn't matter that my hands were gripping his

like a vulture clutching on to its last piece of flesh.

I was finally giving up.

I had gotten used to it.

They figured my body was asking for it.


They weren't used to rejection

but this will never mean consent.


The excuse is brought up.

His dick made him do it.

He says he just couldn't help himself.


I wanted to comprehend why my body had betrayed me.


I never wanted to think about how fucked up they really were.

But I can't seem to forget.

The first one

He laughed and said "you really don't want to have sex with me.

I was disgusted.

He was amused.


I didn't scream because I didn't want people to hear me.


I can’t remember his last name.

That never made a difference.


The second one commented on my neck afterward.

 “you look like you got beaten up.”

He was pleased.

I was discouraged.

He wanted to know if I had dreamt about it.

Would I be his girl?


The last one I only knew for a little while.

It shouldn't matter.

Time never made a difference.


Recently I read a quote that said “trauma survivors have symptoms instead of memories.”

Years later I'm becoming more aware of my symptoms.


Denying it can only get you so far

and they've been a bit more aggressive lately.


The time it takes for a victim to come forward.

Shouldn't make a difference.


Do you know how hard it is to seem normal sometimes?


My brain has rehearsed every way in which people would condemn me. 


When will our society stand up for its victims instead of re traumatizing them?

One moment.

I think my vulnerability is showing.


We are not eight balls.

You don't get to shake us up expecting a different answer.


I can now say “Yes they did rape me.

It's a reason why victims wait so long to talk about rape.


The TV lied.

My rapists didn't come through my window or follow me home.

And the fear of someone finding out is just as threatening as a knife to the throat.

They used to make me feel safe.

So excuse my confusion.


A man stated that this is why I shouldn't want to be alone with men.


Somehow I've never felt dirty

but I've always felt the need to apologize.