Rape Culture

I saw you at the bar. I knew you from somewhere and you offered me a drink. That drink turned into a couple shots. Tequila, I think. The friend I came there with asked me if I wanted to go home. She was leaving. I said no. But she should have made me. I wish that she had, cos’ the next thing I barely remember you were climbing on top of me in your hotel room. You asked me if I was okay. If you have to ask, the answer is always no. But you never had to ask for anything in your entire life did you? You can take what you want. And so you did.

I don’t remember anything else until I think you asked me where you could send that vile fluid that runs through your very disgusting soul. And I think I told you that I didn’t care. Maybe I just said that in my head. It didn’t matter. I just wanted you to finish so I could turn my head and throw up your rape all over your hotel floor.

I called you the next day to ask whether anything had happened. I apologized because I could not remember. Was it a dream? I mean, all a nightmare? You told me to lose your number.

So I knew. I knew what you did. Maybe you misunderstood? Maybe you thought you bought me when you bought me that drink? So I got in the shower and scrubbed myself so hard I bled.



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