An Open Letter to my Rapist
Dear that of who is commandeered by a perfidious soul,
My mother crafted me from lullabies and butterflies, and then she watched me grow on her own. My mother told stories of strangers in the dark, of friendly men with candy in their hand, but my mother never told me of the creatures like you.
She never told me of the malevolent boys who stole things that did not belong to them. She never told me of the boys who will force, who will coerce, who will take what they want even if it is not given. She never told me of the creatures like you.
While my mother taught me the importance of clemency, I could never seem to find enough love in my heart to forgive you. If I could bottle feelings, I’d bottle the memory of what it was like to be me. Before you gave me the identity of the girl who cried rape. Before you tattooed me with stigmas, and branded my body with ridicule. Before you filled me with so much resentment and anger I could no longer cry because the tears had boiled so warmly they began to singe my cheeks. Before you had emptied my belly of the butterflies that once thrived, before you had filled my lungs with words I could never say.
It took 10 months and 13 days for me to say I was raped. It took 10 months and 13 days for me to stop looking for validation of what happened from my teachers, from my friends, from your friends, from the people at that party, from the people I once knew, from my family, and even from you. You will forever be indebted to my self-doubt that kept you safe from ramifications.
You tell a story of regret taken a step too far, but my bruises tell a different tale. My bruises tell a narrative of the word “no.” My tears tell an anecdote of the word “stop.” My heartache tells a saga of the words “it hurts.”
While I know it is our little secret, the truth, I take comfort that beneath your lies you still know it too. We share the same memory of the same night, and of the same stars in the same sky.
Every day I wake up looking for the strength to forgive you. Every day I wake up looking for the strength to love myself. Every day I wake up looking for the strength to love you. Even as my bitter anger consumes my every inch I still search for clemency.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking of your future daughter. About the color of her hair, about the way she will dress, hell, I’ve thought of whether or not she’ll share your eyes. I think about the unconditional love you’ll have for your hypothetical child, the way you’ll protect her from harm, and the gentle embraces you’ll share. And when you do so, when you love your daughter so much you cannot breath, when you fear for her every corner she takes because you know what evils the world has to offer, I hope you look in to her eyes and you think of me.
Warmest,
Thalia Sizemore
