The After

Part 1

I remember exactly where I was

when I realized what happened.

The water fountain next to my boss’s office

shared that moment with me.

While a small piece of my sanity melted

the fountain never moved.

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The melted pile of goo

was hidden away.

The same place where I stuffed memories

of that day.

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I remember exactly where I was

when I told myself it didn’t happen.

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To make sense of what happened

I sought out other men,

and waited for it to happen again.

I chose the most vile and abusive men,

because in my broken brain if they did

that to me then it was normal.

If they hurt me the way he did,

then what happened wasn’t rare.

Then I wouldn’t have to admit something had happened.

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They hurt me in other ways

but never the way I thought they would.

By trying to rationalize this one trauma

I created so many more.

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The hours I spent in backseats of cars

or time I spent on my knees

are pieces of me I can’t ever get back.

I know from experience how little support

a cardboard box has

and how grimey the underside of a bathroom

sink is.

I let sweaty middle-aged men climb over me

while I blankly stared at mirrored ceilings

because I told myself I deserved it.

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Moments of realization will

come to me when I least expect it

Driving, and thoughts of

“my rapist was in my house”

distract me.

Washing dishes, and my brain chirps

“he helped your grandparents move a shelf”

showering, and all I can see

are faces

An endless cycle of regret

Everyday my brain resurrects

a new ghost to haunt me

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Your way of thinking will change.

No one talks about that.

You’ll realize it too late

and it’ll be another thing you’ve lost.

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There’ll be a joke

someone always makes one

and it’ll take almost breaking

your teeth

to stay quiet

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This thing that happened to you

is used as a plot twist in movies.

You’ll have this weird

understanding or knowledge

that the rest of the audience won't.

“I get why they froze.”

”The shower made sense.”

”I didn’t say anything either.”

“Zoning out is normal.”

“Ah, the random crying stage.”

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People might not understand

why you connected to someone

with ten minutes of screentime

or some side character

(but you’ll know)

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No one cares

I mean that genuinely

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You may get help, justice, or pity

but that only lasts for so long.

The world moves on

with or without you.

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Eventually you have to stop

mentioning it

or you’ll get left behind.

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I called ten offices

there were no openings

when I was finally ready

to tell my story

there were no ears

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I have to remind myself

to call him what he actually is

a rapist

Monsters are the things from fairy tales

that show us darkness can be defeated

Fantastical beings born into evil

He chose it in that moment

and there wasn’t a sword for me

I have to remind myself that he was nothing more than a man

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You can’t get raped in you’re not having sex.

So they don’t teach you about it.

Now that you know nothing

how do you tell crime from nature?

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You learn about it in secret.

On darkened screens where predators lurk

and you get desensitized.

Violence=love

or so the internet says.

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So when something violent happens you think everythings normal.

It takes years to figure out what went wrong.

You blame yourself,

for not realizing it sooner.

They blame you,

because how could you have been raped

if you’re not having sex?

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I vilified myself

ruined my own background

lied to myself

why would anyone believe me

if I didn’t for years

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Seven years.

That’s how long I sang

my song of denial.

That could have been years

of therapy, moving on,

or at least acceptance.

Seven years

spent fighting myself

while the real monster

roamed free

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