Wednesday, March 31

I was raped, ok?
I'm admitting it.
I'll steal the thought
from another poet:
forced entry,
but no one was charged.

There was no police
or the interrogation light
or even the interrogation room
no Briscoe, Sherlock
or Jordan.

I sat instead
in my living room,
on the couch ratty
with cat claws,
under a blanket
that smelled like leather,
and I told him.

Halting quiet words
interrupted by hands
the words I can't say
Stop, stop,
and I can hear
myself crying.

There wasn't an official
non-disclosure agreement
but he sealed it with a kiss
on my swollen lips.

Don't tell anyone,
because they won't
believe you anyway.

Don't tell anyone,
because you deserved
it anyway.

Don't tell anyone,
because you asked
for it anyway.

When the interrogation
is over, he is holding
me with his face in my hair,
my tears on our hands,
my breath quick
and loud.

He tells me
that it's all right,
but it'll be a long time coming
when I believe him.


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