First, I begged him to stop. Then, to open the door for me.
Before that night, I believed I would die sooner from my own weakness
than beneath his palms.
I know I am not dead,
but the funeral did happen.
When he pushed and held my body down,
he dug up the ground from underneath me.
And when his fingers grasped my throat,
I was lowered down into a grave.
Now here I lie—
a victim,
a survivor,
a dramatic,
a statistic,
a liar,
whatever the hell you want to call me,
laying there in an open casket
with tears burning my cheeks
wondering if this is my fault
because I wasn’t brave enough to scream stop
behind his concealing palms.
I hear the words from the people above me on solid group.
They speak about a woman—
Who was groped in the back of her 8th grade science class
Who was kicked in the ribs after refusing a kiss
Who was pulled into a bathroom at an arcade while wearing her favorite dress
Who was called a hooker by a passing driver while standing on the corner
Who was convinced that a “boyfriend” meant a “blowjob”
They speak about this woman
As if her life is measured by what happened to her body.
I don’t know the woman they talk about,
The woman I barely remember being.
I am so much more than what happened outside of those evil, evil hands.
I am reminded beneath all the dirt and darkness
that every woman deserves a grave.
The body needs to cry.
And the palm conceals nothing,
except the bruises and hickies that still lie on my neck.
