For the boy who joked about consent and then asked why I took it personally.
For the girls who hesitantly approach me when no one is watching and whisper, “something happened to me”.
For the classmates who whispered that I’m flat-chested but have a nice face at 13.
For the survivors who have lost faith in institutions.
For the high school graduates who find it funny to leer at women in passing cars, reminding them to clutch their pepper sprays like life vests, look down and remember their place in his world, his streets.
Blame the high school boys who got too close to you at parties.
Blame the men who wear the crown of male feminism upon their heads, the jewels glinting on the faces of women whom they’ve abused.
Blame the boy who said he’d “fuck her but wouldn’t want to look at her pissed off face”.
Blame him, who mistook your friendliness for flirtation, your smile for an automatic yes.
Blame the people who stay friends with predators because they don’t want to start drama in the friend group.
I’m sick and weary of writing about abuse. I’m weary of repeating myself, of yelling myself hoarse, of pleading with others to simply listen to survivors. I can’t deny the reality that this body was the lone witness to my assault. I can’t deny the fact that I live here and take this with me everywhere I go.
For the hammering in my chest, wailing, remember this, remember what was done to you, remember your name as a survivor.
For the hammering in his chest, whispering, regret this, forget this, she was a crazy slut anyway.
For the callous laugh of the legal advisor, the sugary sweet tone of the administrator.
For the women who carry the same void in their chest.
The same tremors in their hands.
The same violent catacomb that we call our bodies.
I can finally look back at my younger self and say that I have become unshakeable. I cannot be broken anymore.
What a price to pay.