I say he touched me
And now,
shocked and saddened,
you know.
But you don’t really “know”.
You don’t know the layers
blanketed beneath that statement.
You don’t know the thread that he carelessly pulled
unraveled like a web around me.
You don’t know the things that I experienced,
the awareness,
Far earlier than you even knew existed.
The nights
that never ended,
The days
with unending corners to navigate,
The small spaces
that could not be escaped,
The doors
that never remained closed.
You don’t know the feelings
I felt.
The danger,
the anxiety,
the pit of my stomach knot,
that never fully dissipates.
The weeds that rooted in me that grew out of control
and couldn’t ever be fully uprooted.
You don’t know the first time
I orgasmed.
How could you?
I don’t remember.
It was too long ago.
The ways I punished myself,
the self-inflicted abuse.
You don’t know
the shame
the dirtiness
the feeling of danger lurking.
The label
I thought everyone could see.
The way
I felt every man looked at me.
She says he touched her.
And I know.
I “know”.
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