The only indication that something wrong was going on was how quickly everything stopped when someone walked in, and how he told me to not tell anyone.
I used to always listen to him because he was older than me.
The more I thought about it, the less normal it felt.
I told mama when I was in the fourth grade: “He touches my breasts and my behind, and sometimes, he takes off his pants. Is that normal?"
I stopped hearing about her a long time ago.
When I found out that she was in a relationship,
With someone who was prepared for marriage,
And that they were intending to get married,
I withdrew in a nice manner and wished her all the best.
I mean I know my luck:
I am always too late.
I hate putting myself in positions of vulnerability,
Even though, I know this kind of space is meant to be safe.
I have felt that way in the past and let go.
I have trusted those who I am expected to trust.
First, my uncle: the funny one.
Later, a monk.
gender violence, sexual violence, child molestation
The first time I was molested,
Or the first time I realized that someone had molested me,
I was a 7 year old child.
He was an old man.
I was on the beach, and he took advantage of me being alone,
While my parents were away,
So he touched me.
gender violence, sexual violence, child molestation, parents, suicide
My father was the first person to touch me.
I used to tell myself that I was imagining it.
When he’d touch me with his leg from behind,
I’d tell myself he was just being playful.