If Only.

If the average straight white male

grew as disgusted with slut-shaming as he does Taylor Swift's new single or teenage girls setting their profile pictures to "duck-face" selfies,

was as enraged with men who think having sex with intoxicated women is perfectly legal and justifiable as he is with his hometown's star athlete upon signing with another city's team,

or turned his back to rape jokes as quickly as he does overweight women,

spent half as much time as he does fixated on sports educating his friends on how to respect females,

were as eager to participate in protests addressing the consequences of victim-blaming as he is to lose his virginity, 

were as humiliated to belong to a sex in which 58% would "force a woman to have sex" if they could get away with it as he is when someone suggests he is homosexual

viewed treating women as his equal as "manly" or "masculine" as he does guns, fishing, and hunting

or associated sexual violence and assault with the same weakness he transcribes to crying in public and "chick flicks"

the perpetuation of rape culture would cease to exist. 

Note: Statistic taken from Margo Maine's Body Wars.

all I ever wanted was to be fallow.

He comes inside with no bleeding or screaming. Slaps her in the face saying, “Bitch, you ain’t a virgin.” Was it all a mirage or a simple household lie? Some things are taken, others misplaced. Others, stolen. Sans invitation, just an unquenchable sickness. Hah, like that would stop them.

The problem is that once he came inside he never came out. No, not completely. Not entirely. So, tell me, how does she go on as if nothing has happened? Coal rimmed eyes mask some inner pain as she thrusts herself back into the world with a smile on her face, and a dusting of coins. She has grown so sick of secrets, yet so accustomed to being burdensome. Of course it hasn't changed her, because that'll be easier for them to swallow. Whatever works for them. It is all about them. Whatever. Whatever. 

Convinced of an existence no greater than a black hole, he threw himself inside and planted some wicked  seed that's yet to leave her. Like a night-light, the sheen of his devilish grin keeps her eyelids from falling. He's laughing now from some far off plateau, with each cackle that seed begins to blossom.

I don’t deserve to wear white, so I’ll take it in black. When the clock strikes midnight I die inside for the second time. Twelve just isn’t my number.

Do you even realize what you're saying? Do you even care?

Can your parents look at you without feeling they have completely failed you? Do your enlightened friends tip-toe around the subject, as if you’re now a piece of glass that may shatter at the slightest touch? Is there a thick brick wall between you and the world so that no matter what you say, it’s always a foreign language?

Did it steal your childhood innocence away in a matter of minutes? Did a car drive by and not even stop? When girls cackle about their “first time” and “OMG, my V-Card” do they fail to see the irony when you spit, “I still can’t ride a bicycle.”

Do you hate yourself for thinking somehow it was your fault? Do you sometimes feel guilty as if you made the wrong decision only to feel guiltier for ever blaming yourself? Do the scars remain as permanent physical evidence of the tragic endeavor? Did he laugh as you squirmed under the wide pan of his stomach?

Was it literally stolen from you? Is your body nothing but a source of pain? Are their particular movements, hues, sounds, anything that can send the whole act replaying in your mind? Do certain scenes spin around and around in your mind like a carousel? Does the spinning never stop? Are you always always always dizzy with memories? Do you play music so fucking loud when you’re in the shower so no one can hear you screaming? Do you abrade your own flesh until you bleed in the thought that maybe; just maybe, you can somehow bleed it all away? Is their a constant film of disgust daubed about your being? Are you in a perpetual fight with your body because you feel like you have failed it? Are you obligated to tell anyone who touches you, both now and in the future?

Oh, what’s that? Yeah, I didn’t think so. I guess your finals didn’t “rape” you. I suppose your team’s big lost was not equivalent to being “raped.” When your teacher accidently bumps into you in the hallway he is not “practically raping” you. Rape is not an expression or hyperbole, it actually exists and happens, to real people, all the time.