I hate boys with penises that come at you like they have a right to your soul.

I hate that I believe every time one of them says I really miss you or let us hang out.

I hate how my brain has refused to make the connection, to accept that the only part of me worth missing is what’s between my legs.

I hate how I never see it coming till I am already where they want me, how I first relax in the illusion of old or new found friendship, then I see a smile that curves in a way it should not, a stare that lingers and cuts through my clothes and I think oh shit.

I hate how I do not fight, not anymore.
I beg and I whimper, and cough out water when I should be spitting out fire.

I hate myself the most when I lie there and count in my head. Or look out the window of the car and let a series of please cum quick bounce around in my head.

I hate how I do not know the difference anymore.

Is it rape if all I did to stop him was sob softly and whimper please stop?

Is it rape if I hug him when we say our goodbyes and smile as I reply sure when he says see you tomorrow, knowing that it will only happen over my dead body?

But it happens again.

Maybe not with him, but with another like him. Because I am desperate to believe…

I put myself there again because I am stupid and I refuse to learn how not to trust.


Flying Bishop of Benin fame


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: