I didn't know how to start this,

as if you could tell it was for you.

 

Like the words dripping from my tongue sprang into your ear like honey slowing falling into a cup of tea, just for the heat to dissemble it into nothingness.

 

I never spoke out about my assault because it was just that. An assault.

 

He did not penetrate me and take my vow from before I could even say no.

 

No I didn't speak out, because I remember his voice, soft but lacking empathy, telling me how another girl would die to take my spot.

 

To report the assault was to also report how we dated, and you broke up with me, which then broke my heart.

 

So how am I to tell a story in which you did that to me, but you also shoved your fingers into my crevice of privacy.

 

No, I couldn't talk about what you did without it becoming my fault, like the time I was 9 and it was also my fault or at 12 during baseball practice and I was held in a bathroom unless I took my shirt off because I was the only girl with 34 B's.

 

I couldn't speak because how could I contradict the Mormon church, seeing as that's where he belonged, and his father, a respected doctor in the town.

 

He covered my mouth, and his sweat fell onto my skin as I tried to whisper 'no'.

 

How could I speak up?

 

I couldn't.

 

It's been 7 years, and I still think about every detail.

 

I remember the bruises on my shoulder from your elbow holding me down.

 

I can feel my blood stained face after crying for two weeks straight.

 

I still hear your hitched breath as you found your reaching point.

 

Picturing your smile as you shushed my cries, in attempt to get you off of me.

 

The silence filling the room when you ripped your hand out of my pants.

 

How you so nonchalantly said you would take me home, and then also stopping the car three blocks from my house to talk me into never telling anyone.

 

But now?

 

Listen to me.

 

Be glad I didn't use your name.