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.
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.