Dear rapist(s),

How are you doing? I am okay. The inner corners of the walls you invaded have been built back up with reinforced walls and a stronger understanding of what it means to feel worthless. I haven’t felt the same since your warriors destroyed the only part of me that had some sort of recognition. I know I’m not defined by the genitalia that lays between my thighs, but the moment you ripped out my self-esteem and spat on it, I realize that the only defining thing I had was taken away from me. I don’t walk the same way. My right thigh always hurts, and my hips have bruises on their bones that will never fade. It doesn’t matter if my skin heals, the imprints of your fingertips will always burn and crack the sensitive parts of me. People stare at me now, and look at me differently, I think they can taste the shame in my shadow, or maybe they can just sense the rattled clarity that now mixes affection with pain. I don’t let people touch me. The ones that do, feel a cluttered confusion. Hugs feel like a tornado. Confusing and destructive. I don’t have the strength to tell my friends I don’t want to be touched, human interaction is important to them, but a monster to me. Do you know how hard it is to explain to people what you did? I can’t, I don’t remember. My memory has amnesia. The times I do remember what you did, I feel my ribs breaking, the demon between my thighs start to hurt, and the underlying aches are so strong. I hate myself. How could I let you do that to me? I feel like my self-worth has been determined by whether or not I have been captured by the shape-shifters in the alleyways or the drugs in the water bottles. I am worth nothing. Ever since that night, sleeping has become an escape and I fear walking down the street, my body doesn’t work right. There’s an unsettling inner rhythm in me and it doesn’t beat right. I want to feel normal, I don’t want to fear every hand that touches my body, but last weekend I was pushed to the ground and I screamed “No” so loud that the skeletons in the cemeteries heard me. I spend most days with a daunting silence in my lungs, and I pray to the dead that they’ll find you. I’ve learned the dead can’t hurt you, only the living do. I have you to thank for that. To be honest, I don’t know where this letter is going, my broken soul told me to recite this to you so I am, maybe one day you’ll get caught and get what you deserve, but until then I will write about the cage you rattled and the confidence you destroyed. I will write about the silenced vocal chords and the claw marks on my thighs you left from gripping too hard because you might’ve ruined my body, but I will not let you ruin me.


The Victim

august 1st is fast approaching


(via unscriptedconfabulationmn)