According to the RAINN, the nation’s largest anti-sexual violence location, every 98 seconds an American is sexually assaulted. I consider myself lucky as the sexual assault I suffered was minor when compared to others, and I wasn’t in fear of additional violence being inflicted. I was able to get to safety. I am keenly aware that not everyone is so lucky and that many carry their assault silently.

As a poet, I often use my writing to work through heavy topics and this was no exception. After I felt emotionally ready to tackle my assault I put pen to paper and wrote.

Trigger

He shoved his hands down

my pants, sunk his caramel-colored

fingers into the very heat of me.

As fast as he’d done it I planted

my hands on his chest and pushed him

backwards. He raised his hands

in mock surrender, as if there’d been

a pistol in my pussy.

Sorry, sorry, he said, as if

it had been an accident, his eyes

as wide as snow.

I looked at him, cocked the hammer

with my eyes, inched backwards

as if in a duel.

I should have pulled the trigger.

 

This poem was originally published by SHE Zine and is reprinted here with permission.