We tend to blame and shame victims in this culture, which is why so few are willing or able to speak.
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My rape was a climax in a lifetime of trauma. Braver voices than mine have overcome the shame of violation, the lingering fear of violence and pressed onwards with their lives. I want to ask them, what did they do with the burning self-hatred?
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A lengthy hospitalization for medical and mental health reasons followed. Me and my braid were back at home after several months. I cut two feet of my hair a week after my arrival home. Even my mother agreed, this was a good choice, a fresh start. The power was in my hands.
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I am a fifteen-year-old body, shrinking violet-lipped, dry-skinned, smug body. See my unravelling, see me feast upon my own flesh, see me disappear, see me. Don’t see me. I am a hologram – here one minute, gone the next.
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These days I don’t write poems anymore, and I feel a part of me is too comfortable hiding, too comfortable with the idea of getting lost in the shadows of a self who never was or never was entirely whole.
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It became every bit of me. A fear that surfaced once I could feel her kicks.
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