A L I V E long poem

Photo by Keith@Fibonacci

How has this affected me?
How has this not affected me
Am I even the same person anymore?

I have been split.
Split into two

Before the rape
After the rape

Before I was me. I was alive. I was h a p p y., care f r e e. I loved people. Everyone was a friend. I was genuine, I was glad to meet your friends and make them feel at home. Yes, I was shy and reserved but I was always ready to make a new friend and get to know someone. I was open to trying new things and going to that party with you and your new friend and having a great time. I’m in my 20’s, this is my prime right? This is my mindset? This is why I didn’t question this night.


This second person that I have been split into?

I am a costume. I am a dead person wearing a Blanca costume. Lol. Who is this? Who are you?
This is someone pretending

This? No. “This” is ME. ME ME ME. I am F A K E. I am t r y i n g. But I can’t breathe. I am suffocating. When that guy looks at me – I feel disgusting. When I walk out the door, I feel like I can’t breathe. When my shorts feel short- I am “asking” for it”. When I’m not covered head to toe, I deserved it right? When I think about the de many girls growing up, I am t e r r i f i e d. I am scared. I want to protect them. I cry at night sometimes thinking about them getting older and what the world has in store. I am a small, tiny shell. I am hiding in this skin. I am N O T happy. I am not free.

I am


I will never be the same. I will never be happy.
I will never see you the same way I did before. You – you are the man. You are an awful human being. You are an animal. YOU. You are a
r a p i s t.

You. You are a woman. You are helpless. You cannot fend nor protect yourself. You are WEAK.

But no. That’s not it. That’s not who anyone is.

I do not mean to offend.
I am just

My body, no longer “my body”. It is now tainted. It is tainted with your sweat. Your blood. Your scars. My body is no longer mine. This skin, the skin I live in, I hate it. h a t e.

There are moments these days when I begin to love myself, then I look in the mirror and look at my clothes or my body and picture you. Y. O. U.
I h a t e y o u.

I want to be away. I don’t want to be here or anywhere. I don’t want anyone surrounding me to know about this. Or you or anything. I don’t want you to exist and if your name ever gets brought up, I am prepared to move. That’s how much hate you and everything about you.

But the truth…..



t r u t h

I hate myself. I h a t e M E.

I should have known. I should have tried. I should have fought. I should have stood up for myself.

My mother raised me better. She always warned us about this. And I just let her d o w n
I proved her right. That’s why I won’t tell her.
That’s why 6 months later, I have basically lost touch with my mother. Because I cannot l o o k at her, without seeing the disappointment in my eyes reflecting back from hers.

I should have f o u g h t.
I should have fought for her.

This is my fault.

I didn’t know. I didn’t know how to act. I was lost. I didn’t know this was happening.
I did know. But it felt like a dream. A bad dream. Then next thing I knew, it was rough and it was bad and I couldn’t move. And it was scary and I was stuck

I a m s u r v i v i n g.
I a m a l i v e.

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A passionate poetic utterance in the aftermath of the trauma of rape.


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