It’s been nearly a year since we last spoke, and I’m guessing I don’t cross your mind much anymore. But I am writing this to tell you how awful it is when I wake up in the morning and remember what you did. Not every morning, but the mornings when I awake in a fog and remember how it felt when I woke up with you on top of me. With your hands in places you assumed I wanted. Note that I said assumed, as there was never any consent, as you didn’t seem to need that to have your vile way with me. And yet here you are, still living a normal life, still pretending to be a decent human being. I always wanted to be an actress, but I am subpar compared to the painted mask you wear to the world, one of innocence and charm, that you continue to wear even now. You acted like the nice guy, and I trusted you. I’m writing this now because I don’t want any girl to make that mistake with you again. Oh, I’m sure you’ve forgotten what it is you have done. I’m sure, you don’t even think you have done it. So let me remind you of the basic rules of consent. When I lay unconscious in a bed that does not mean YES. When I am asleep that does not mean YES. When I am so drunk I speak in tongues and cannot stand up, as my boyfriend you should have known that I definitely never said YES. But you did it anyway. You convinced me that at some point my unconscious form mouthed the word yes. And if I had, as your twisted mind has convinced itself, then I wouldn’t be here now. Nearly a full year later, still grimacing when a boy touches my hip in a dark room. Still scared of intimacy from boys who look at me softly and ACTUALLY ASK FOR CONSENT.
I’m shaking with anger at the thought of you being set free in the wildnerness of dating, concocting a fairytale narrative for yourself that you are a gentleman, a shining prince, a victim in the end of our relationship. That you are a hurt lost soul in need of comfort, that a girl, any girl should trust you. Like I did. I am scratching at my skin to remove the weight of your body pressed to mine, that I can still feel. I cut off my hair, so that the anchor you used to hold me down could no longer exist. I am crying out that even a year later I still taste your sour breath, and you have a new girlfriend. A new girl. A new, victim.
When I saw your relationship status update I just cried, I cried and thought about how many times you lied and manipulated my feelings. How many times you controlled who I spoke to, what I wore, where I went. I cried at how easily I lost myself in your accusations and hated the weak person I became. I cried at how often you forced yourself on me, in me, and how no one believed me. I’m crying because I never got heard. And because of that she thinks you’re a fairytale gentleman, a shining prince. You are the hero of your story and I have let that girl down, because in your favourite story tale metaphor, you are the big bad wolf and she just walked into your arms. I’m trying to get better, but it’s taken a lot of loss. Loss of your family who hurled abuse at me, loss of my friends who didn’t believe me, loss of a relationship with my mother who didn’t really believe I would have let that happen to me. Let you happen to me.
I read somewhere that in 7 years every cell of your body is broken down and replaced, and I’m so excited about the prospect of having a body you have never touched. You probably will never read this, and if you do you will never assume it is about you, how could it be? You wouldn’t hurt a fly. But I know the real you, the one you hide under the charm and the supposed vulnerability. You are a snake, a liar and the perfect sociopath. Even I didn’t see you coming. I still think about you all the time, still feel your grip on my neck. I write poems about your scabby hands and your yellow teeth. You are the creature that will always appear in my nightmares. I sure hope your new girl is smart. Smarter than me anyway.
I’m writing this scared and alone but finally free of your grasp. I want to put you in the past, and maybe someday I will. I heard forgiveness is good for the soul, but for now while my soul is still black and torn from the abuse your hands have caused, I hope you get hit by a bus.
The girl you don’t even think about