For My Rapist | What He Taught Me

By Angelia Silvero

*CW: sexual assault

For My Rapist

My rapist still reads my writing. I saw him share one of my love poems and I know that he’s still looking for his reflection in the soft ones; rearranging letters in hopes that it’ll spell out his name. Sometimes I wish the only writing he ever got from me was a police report. I wish that this wasn’t the only way I could ever stop swallowing silence.

Poetry makes this easier to chew - pretty words make ugly things palatable. But in therapy, I’m forced to strip down the metaphors until I’m naked. Until it’s that rainy night in October, the only color coming from the blue sweater I saved for a nice occasion. There’s half priced quesadillas and a bill that’s paid with parts of my body I’ve since dreamed of removing. There’s only two sides to my dorm’s mattress - the side he took everything from me and the side where I relived it each night. It didn’t matter which side I flipped it to, it always hurt the same.

Now I live across the hall from the room I was raped in. I cry salty tears in hopes it’ll keep the demons behind those walls. I pray that I am safe here but I am constantly surrounded by memories. I still flinch when my friends mention half apps. The blue sweater I wore sits heavy in my closet with my old sheets. I try to wear it and remind myself that this story is not his to tell, and no matter how many love poems he tries to claim, they will never be his. Even though I still feel small, I often find enough courage to speak up.

So here’s my statement:

Stop looking for your poem in the lineup, Andrew. It’s right here.

What He Taught Me

He told me once that fear comes from nightlights. He told me there is no evil without the knowledge of good, it simply cannot exist without the other. The trick, he said, to growing up in a bad family is to never visit the good homes. He grew up with his eyes closed, unaware of how bad he had it. He never knew what lurked in the dark until it started to cast a shadow. 

He taught me how to fear. I’d rather live with my eyes shut than be blinded by the light. I can’t be treated too nicely. I shrink away from bright smiles and hopeful promises. How can a princess trust the prince when he slays the dragon - the only thing she’s ever known in that tower? People often forget that flames do more than destroy, they also give off warmth. A sick kind of comfort. I learned his fire like he learned my skin. I was only six years old. Young enough to love storytime and innocent enough to trust him and his fantasies with the nightlight switched off.

I suppose his scars serve as some kind of tally, a bullet-pointed list of all the sins he’s ever committed. I am nothing but a cigarette burn on his forearm. I wonder if he looks at it and thinks of me the same way I think of him each time someone is a little too rough, each time someone looks at me a little too long. I am nothing but a cigarette burn on his forearm but he is every missed meal, every sleepless night, every panic attack. I can’t help but wish I was worth more to him than just a scar. I wish I had cut him deeper. I wish I had taught him how to fear, like he taught me.

Angelia Mae Silvero is a Filipinx-American poet born in 1996 and raised in Edison, New Jersey. She is a writer interested in all things bigger than her body such as astrology, tarot, and her own emotions. Her biggest inspirations are Richard Siken, Madeline Miller, and Anaïs Mitchell. She hopes to leave behind a legacy of strength and healing. You can find snippets of her writing on Instagram @by.ame