When I hear that it happened to someone I know,
And I learn the details of the story,
I remember the details of what happened to me.
I remember that my physical strength,
Is what stopped me from getting raped.
But everytime, I feel violated and hurt.

Everytime I said no,
The other person found it offensive to his manhood,
And dignity.
I tried not to say it,
Because I was worried I’d hurt him.
I was worried he’d react violently.

I remember the pushing,
The kicking,
And the yelling.
I remember every time I said no,
And how he continued anyway.
At times,
I felt as if I were transforming into a pillow,
By the way he’d close his eyes,
And forget that I was even there.
It killed me.
It made me feel like I was nothing.
He’s going to continue,
Regardless of whether I’m enjoying it,
Whether I’m in pain,
Or whether it’s consensual.
His only goal was to satisfy his desire.

I remember the time I was putting on my clothes while going down the stairs,
The time I locked myself in the bathroom,
And the time I threatened to hit him if he didn’t open the apartment door.
He let me leave like that.
I remember how disgusted I was by sex for weeks,
And sometimes months.
I remember my constant attempts at recovering,
Which would always end with me making peace with what happened,
Because there’s no way I can erase it.

I never told anyone.
But oftentimes,
My body would give me away.
My discomfort,
Fear,
Feeling uneasy from an impending threat,
The mental images I get when I’m intimate with someone,
The fear of letting myself go,
Or to lose control.
They all remind me of what happened.