This is the rape joke:
My best friend was four years old the first time his father came into his room at midnight and tore out his throat. He still has days when I cannot hold him because the memory of a bleeding trachea haunts his doorway. He has not been home for the holidays in many years, but – even now – hands are seen as weapons.
This is the rape joke:
I have been told by more than twenty people that they have been raped. To all of them, I asked where the rapist was. From none of them, I heard jail.
This is the rape joke:
I believed him.
This is the rape joke:
I now look at every woman on the street and wonder if the space between her legs is a crime scene, surrounded by ripped caution tape. The statistics tell me that this is so common that I will never be in a room that does not contain a survivor. Not even if I am in that room alone.
This is the rape joke:
I was thirteen years old, and he was supposed to be just a friend.
This is the rape joke:
When I finally told my parents, they asked what I had been wearing.
This is the rape joke:
I had been wearing my innocence. My trust. I had worn the love I held for humanity and expected to be treated well. I had never been taught that I would be that girl, the one who keeps a mine of secrets between her legs – that girl was the slut. I wasn't supposed to be breakable.
What had I been wearing? I wore the rape joke, then I became it.
— blackshelfpoet
YOU ARE READING
Serendipity | Poetry + Prose
Random*updates on Monday, Wednesday and Friday!* Serendipity (n.) Finding something good without looking for it. [ a collection of poetry, prose and everything in between that have touched my heart. ]
