Spring 2017.
A woman I call mom always when I'm talking about her and never when I'm talking to her inquires about a new him. When I tell her I do not trust men who have not suffered, she knows I am lying. This time, I do cry.
Fall 2016.
Saturday night's look: eight months off crystal & dating a trucker. I'm embarrassed and too sober until a rich girl in glasses shoves a plastic cup full of a Celiac's disaster into my hand. You look real pale and smell like sadness. Rich girl won't stop talking; you take the cup. Clean shaven, he looks a lot like this musician I was really into when I was 15. I wonder how many people tell him that, but then remember the type of people with whom he surrounds himself. Your pop culture is not my pop culture.
No grit. No edge. Cliche, no - predictable. 15 year old me went on a walk; 21 year old me wants to go home, but doesn't recognize the way back to campus. Mutual disinterest. I'm switched out for a sorority girl whose blond hair doesn't come from a box. No longer giddy on a turquoise couch, traded in red Colorados for black Audis, pink ribbon laced creepers for black booties and called it a recovery. How scary it is to think I've healed.
Through an SMS screen I learn that you're "terrified" of making moves on girls.
January 2017.
So terrified that your loneliness becomes my responsibility. So terrified that you remind me that my body is too woman to really mean anything. Too woman to be considered a threat. Against a '06 Pontiac Grand Prix my arms blossom into the dead wings of a cork-pinned moth. My PTSD, your victory lap. Through torn stockings and a semen stained dress that now resides at 201 West North Street, I learn that you are what is terrifying.
Do rapists remember the women they rape? Are we hand selected and groomed for meeting some sort of baseline criteria? Or is it like a video game, with our various identifiers equating to various scores? +50 feminist! +200 acquaintance! Your high score dependent on my tears, I am what must be conquered before entry into the next level.
February 2017.
A bored and exhausted woman asks for what feels like the hundredth time, "Are you going to class?" What a privilege to be annoyed rather than petrified. I begin to wonder if I have an identity outside of academia, but the thought is fleeting. "I believe something happened to you," and like that, I remember exactly who I am: a series of holes waiting for a baseball bat. "In high school I used to shoot two grams of heroin a day and here I am." That shuts her up. Attendance, as if that's the ultimate indicator of one's sincerity.
In the library, I pretend not to be afraid of you. "You're smarter than the other two. I've got a special plan for you." My spit on your face is nothing compared to your cum on a red chiffon dress. Shame that I wasn't wearing blue. Monica Lewinsky jokes make better punch lines than rape poems.
A new man, older, wearier, leans over a porcelain sink, thick hair pouring into the basin below. It’s like I have ADD, only for people. "Why do you always look like you have a question?" Why does all sex taste like breaking and entering?
Blondie calls to say me too.
March 2017.
I am walking into work when I become a stock character in a story that will always be yours. Most days I am more victim than survivor. A drain clogged with too much emotional baggage, I spend more time in the Title IX office than I do being conscious. There are days I want people to believe me more than I want to be alive. I'm making yet another scene in the mouth of trauma.
April 2017.
I spend a weekend in Detroit responding to a report of an incident you'll tell your mother never happened. To my twenty six pages, you'll spend 12 minutes misspelling my name in a series of nine sentences.
I fell in love with every pretty thing, but now know better than to pursue it. That makes him a hero & me a tragedy.
A woman I call mom always when I'm talking about her and never when I'm talking to her inquires about a new him. When I tell her I do not trust men who have not suffered, she knows I am lying. This time, I do cry.
Fall 2016.
Saturday night's look: eight months off crystal & dating a trucker. I'm embarrassed and too sober until a rich girl in glasses shoves a plastic cup full of a Celiac's disaster into my hand. You look real pale and smell like sadness. Rich girl won't stop talking; you take the cup. Clean shaven, he looks a lot like this musician I was really into when I was 15. I wonder how many people tell him that, but then remember the type of people with whom he surrounds himself. Your pop culture is not my pop culture.
No grit. No edge. Cliche, no - predictable. 15 year old me went on a walk; 21 year old me wants to go home, but doesn't recognize the way back to campus. Mutual disinterest. I'm switched out for a sorority girl whose blond hair doesn't come from a box. No longer giddy on a turquoise couch, traded in red Colorados for black Audis, pink ribbon laced creepers for black booties and called it a recovery. How scary it is to think I've healed.
Through an SMS screen I learn that you're "terrified" of making moves on girls.
January 2017.
So terrified that your loneliness becomes my responsibility. So terrified that you remind me that my body is too woman to really mean anything. Too woman to be considered a threat. Against a '06 Pontiac Grand Prix my arms blossom into the dead wings of a cork-pinned moth. My PTSD, your victory lap. Through torn stockings and a semen stained dress that now resides at 201 West North Street, I learn that you are what is terrifying.
Do rapists remember the women they rape? Are we hand selected and groomed for meeting some sort of baseline criteria? Or is it like a video game, with our various identifiers equating to various scores? +50 feminist! +200 acquaintance! Your high score dependent on my tears, I am what must be conquered before entry into the next level.
February 2017.
A bored and exhausted woman asks for what feels like the hundredth time, "Are you going to class?" What a privilege to be annoyed rather than petrified. I begin to wonder if I have an identity outside of academia, but the thought is fleeting. "I believe something happened to you," and like that, I remember exactly who I am: a series of holes waiting for a baseball bat. "In high school I used to shoot two grams of heroin a day and here I am." That shuts her up. Attendance, as if that's the ultimate indicator of one's sincerity.
In the library, I pretend not to be afraid of you. "You're smarter than the other two. I've got a special plan for you." My spit on your face is nothing compared to your cum on a red chiffon dress. Shame that I wasn't wearing blue. Monica Lewinsky jokes make better punch lines than rape poems.
A new man, older, wearier, leans over a porcelain sink, thick hair pouring into the basin below. It’s like I have ADD, only for people. "Why do you always look like you have a question?" Why does all sex taste like breaking and entering?
Blondie calls to say me too.
March 2017.
I am walking into work when I become a stock character in a story that will always be yours. Most days I am more victim than survivor. A drain clogged with too much emotional baggage, I spend more time in the Title IX office than I do being conscious. There are days I want people to believe me more than I want to be alive. I'm making yet another scene in the mouth of trauma.
April 2017.
I spend a weekend in Detroit responding to a report of an incident you'll tell your mother never happened. To my twenty six pages, you'll spend 12 minutes misspelling my name in a series of nine sentences.
I fell in love with every pretty thing, but now know better than to pursue it. That makes him a hero & me a tragedy.
