Crocodiles sharpen their teeth
on a chainsaw while I sleep
and dream of pianos whispering,
mixing drinks, and
laughing about the economy
because it had nothing to do with them.
I was raped when I was 16 and he 21.
Not gorgeous, just truth.
I didn’t even know it was rape until a friend told me it was and I could press charges. I didn’t know
rape could happen in a relationship. I didn’t scream. He didn’t hit me. I wasn’t raped. Right? Poor Little
dress up doll Megan, so naive, but no one to tell her otherwise.
Wait no, now I kinda remember.
I was raped by the crocodile in the attic
under the ceiling fan that goes
and you just grit your teeth and
dissociate off with Alice and
her Mad Mad Hatter world where
everything is nonsense.
I was raped on a circus wheel,
a pin wheel,
a tracker wheel,
with a brick in my stomach,
my black feathers,
in tufts being pulled out
of my bleeding back
for his extra kicks,
a needle in my eye.
I was raped in the bed of a truck,
with the street lamps still lit,
in his parents bathroom,
in front of his catholic alter,
on the cold dead floor that starts to bleed.
Not all rape stories are the same.
We lift our voices.
We share our stories.
We commit to being heard
even if the bleeding hasn’t stopped.