“Man, that chem test raped me!”
“Wanna hear a good rape joke?”
“I’ll tell you, with a skirt like that, she was practically wanting to get raped.”
“She was asking for it.”
But I wasn’t asking for it. When I was fourteen the only things I would ask for was more friends or less homework, but hey, will you rape me? No. A double cheeseburger with a side of rape? No.
I never asked to be raped. I did not ask to lie awake at night wishing I wasn’t, and I did not ask to relive the horror of him inside of me day in and day out, no: rape is not a joke!
That chem test you didn’t study for did not rape you, nor did it rob from your innocence or sanity. That chemistry test didn’t leave you with scars on your wrists and three new prescriptions, take twice daily to feel nothing.
When I was fourteen, I did not blow out the candles on my birthday cake and wish for him to come along. I did not beg him to violate me in ways I couldn’t imagine and I did not ask him to lay beside me and take away the only pieces of me I had spared, no. That chemistry test did not plant inside of you something so evil that the only way to escape was to give up or die trying.
And even to this day, two and a half years later, I still feel him digging into me. I still see his ruddy face in strangers passing by.
They said it would get better but when, I ask. When will I be able to hug my father without feeling him around my waist?