I can never bring myself to write a poem about you. So I will write about everyone else.
Dear my first,
Did you not understand when I said no? Did you not understand when I crossed my legs? How about my exasperated “sure just do it.” Did you not realize that I was just tired of fighting? Tired of constantly having to say no and never being enough for you. I’m sorry I broke your heart when I broke up with you, but you started slowly breaking as soon as you realized how vulnerable I was.
Dear 26 year old,
Did you realize I was 18 and dumb? Did you notice that I was a wanderer at heart and wasn’t going to stay because of you. My soul longed for adventure. I constantly reassured you that you were not stealing from the cradle, I jumped out of it. I was trying to warn you that I would always jump. Each jump would be from a slightly higher cliff. I’m sorry I hurt you when I left, but with each moment I stayed, I felt myself sinking deeper into the ground. I’m sorry, but birds aren’t meant to stay on the ground. They’re meant to skydive down and then rise back up.
Dear rapist number one,
How fucked up is it that I have to specify number one. When I wrote dear rapist my heartbeat quickened and tears started forming in my eyes. I will never be able to explain to you what you have done to me and I’ll never be able to understand why you thought it was okay. Because of what you did, every time I see you I have to walk away and find a place to cry until my lungs no longer have the energy to cry and I have two choices, suffocate on my own breath or calm down and continue living. I choose to live. But I also choose to hope that one day you rot from guilt. I may be too scared to go through a case with you, but I’m not to scared to face what you did to me, not anymore.
Dear rapist number two,
I thought you were my chance. I idealized you, thought you were the person for me. You got me. I was wrong. We had wonderful conversation and dinner. But apparently no sex on the first date is the equivalent of a zebra asking the lion to talk before a slaughter. I guess you can’t be to blame, I froze, I complied. The voice inside my head saying “just get it over with, give him what he wants and it can be over.” I cried all the way home. I’m sorry, you will never know what you have done to me. I’m sorry, that you will never know why we didn’t work out. Maybe it’s better if you don’t