Here’s My Rape Story — The First of Three

Window shadows.

Drift across the room, disappear, and I await their return.

In the distance

I hear him coming

I lie in bed

Awake.

It’s late

Coming closer

Between my legs, a feeling I don’t understand.

In my ear, a whisper.

In my hand, something warm, smooth.

In my belly, a sickness like an unripe pear.

Window shadows.

Drift across the room.

Between my legs, a fire.

In my ear, a sigh.

In my hand, something soft, wet.

In my belly, a sickness like a rotting core.

Window shadows.

Drift across the room.

In the distance

I hear him going

I lie in bed

Awake.

***

I don’t know why that came out as a poem. I don’t write poetry at all ever, save a haiku that may pop into my head every now and again. I feel good about it, though. My heart is thumping in my throat and my arms are weak, almost too weak to type, but I feel good about it.

I was five when my parents divorced, so I guess I was six when my mom’s boyfriend started molesting me. I didn’t know what was happening. I was so confused. I’d sit and wait for him — watching the window shadows drift across my bedroom — to come into my room with equal parts fear, loathing and sweet anticipation of that feeling between my legs.

I’m joining in the medium rape chorus; something I never thought I’d do. It’s not because I’m ashamed, it’s because I didn’t realize that people cared. I didn’t realize how many people can relate.

I didn’t realize it was rape.

I didn’t realize how angry I am.