DON’T FUCKING MOVE.
Keep still, look down at yourself, keep quiet, and don’t fucking scream. The worst thing you could do is scream.
I’m not a toy. You can’t throw me aside when you’re done.
I am not a daffodil. You can’t cut me and throw in a vase with my sisters, admiring our slow death.
I’m not a statistic. I am a human being, crying and perspiring like the rest of us.
I’m not a joke. I used to say life was joke and suicide was just a punch line. I said a lot of stupid things.
I am not an optimist.
[42% of rape survivors told no one about the rape.]
This is going to hurt, no lie. We’re not bullshitting you here, this is the real deal. It’s a needle beneath your skin, vibrating like a sadistic sex toy.
The tall girl with blue eyes told the artist calmly what she wanted.
He agreed eagerly and tried not to stare at her extravagant chest.
She’s a piece of meat. It’s worth noting she’s a vegetarian.
Nonetheless, she thought he was cute, almost the way a puppy is after you smack it on the nose.
I am a victim. I am disabled. I am rendered helpless. I am a sad story, a lost cause. I am something that could have been great. I’m told I am all of these things.
I am a survivor. I am a fighter. I am a fire hearted bitch. I know I am all of these things.
I am a cunt. Does that word make you flinch?
[30% of rape survivors contemplate suicide after the rape.]
Oh! She’s a bleeder! They said. It’s everywhere.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even respond.
The artist rarely saw women get squeamish at the sight of blood, mostly men.
Doctors might blame it on endorphins.
Sometimes the girl got piercings, just to see how tough she really was.
Who am I? I forgot again. Please, label me, this is so uncomfortable! How dare you exist without being packaged into these neat little categories?
I have wide hips and strong thighs that can deliver a roundhouse kick known to shatter teeth. Okay, okay. You’re some sort of butch Amazon wonder dyke.
I have large pale blue doll-like eyes. It doesn’t get much cuter than having them stare up at you from down on my knees. You’re just a baby, huh? You’re innocent and helpless. You can’t do it on your own, honey.
I have ridiculous breasts. I didn’t ask for them, I didn’t ask for it. What are those, F cups? Wow. You dumb slut. You should be ashamed.
I am a feminist and no one has once supported this. I believe in the power of language and the strength in song. I am a poet.
[More than any other profession, female poets are most likely to die young and commit suicide.]
Surprise, this is pleasurable. The artist concludes that the buxom blonde woman is a masochist. You learn something new every day. It’s starting to carve away down her pale shoulder, bleeding all the way. The endorphins work. She closed her eyes and saw herself.
She closed her eyes and saw God.
Everything you know about God is wrong. As it stands, this bitch is high as a kite on the ides of March.
I have been starving for salvation. I am screaming for a voice. I am looking for a reason to live.
Currently, I don’t know where I am.
[Studies conclude that 43 percent (43%) of the children who are abused are abused by family members, 33 percent (33%) are abused by someone they know, and the remaining 24 percent (24%) are sexually abused by strangers.]
You’re almost done. We’re getting close. It’s gonna hurt, sweetheart.
She’s smiling this crooked smile and he could’ve sworn he saw the devil in her blue eyes. It didn’t hurt a bit.
Who are we? Sometimes I believe in the divinity of human beings. I am secular but sure we are special. Other times I realize we’re a pack of apes throwing shit at each other.
Everybody wants to be in control, even these dumb gorillas getting drunk off power.
[For these power rapists, rape becomes a way to compensate for their underlying feelings of inadequacy and feeds their issues of mastery, control, strength, authority and capability. The intent of the power rapist is to assert their competency. The power rapist relies upon verbal threats, intimidation with a weapon, and only uses the amount of force necessary to subdue his victim.]
It’s over. The artist is proud of his work and bewildered by the girl.
She looks disappointed as the needle stops humming.
There’s a mess of scarlet and white over her back, which is suspiciously muscular. She uses a small shaking hand to wipe off the blood. There’s black ink stretching across her shoulder.
This once, she sees her body and feels she owns it.
She feels beautiful.
Fuck you, she is beautiful.
I am on a precarious ledge of flourish and fantasy. I can withdraw, I can escape, and I can repress my every little memory into an ache at the back of my head. Did I mention I have a migraine?
I can cry every single night if I want.
I can lie back and take it.
Or I can kick you in the fucking teeth.
[Not All Who Wander Are Lost]