The way we are. (A poem about rape culture in smaller communities).
He says that he has a crush on you, and wants to be more than friends, when you turn him down: he guilt's you until no end, that's just the way we are.
You go out on a date and he spends a lot of money, he wants more than a kiss, but you won't just have sex with anybody. He thinks he has the right, since he bought you off, you should clearly return the favor, in a mutual and beneficial exchange. Except it's not beneficial, because it feels like obligation so maybe if you go down on him, he'll be content with the train never leaving the station.
That's just the way we are.
He's known amongst friends, and never tries to make waves, but the second you get drunk with him, things start to change. He'll get super close, and it'll make you feel awkward, but since you're both drunk, would telling him to go away even matter? first he'll put his arm around you, then his hand on your leg, and he assumes that since you're intoxicated also, that you feel the same. You'll disappear into another room, you'll lay down and not think of the things that he could have put you through. Maybe you'll close your eyes, and begin to fall asleep, but the drunken breath of the man that won't stop touching you, is now filling the sheets.
You'll beg him to stop and he'll eventually listen, but he almost got away with rape, and your mutual friends, would only be dismissive.
That's just the way we are.
Maybe myself, and someone that I know, can be discussing sexuality, and how we need to get it more. We'll discuss our yearning, our human right, and someone overhears me and talks for the rest of the night. They'll go to make a move, and I'll say no, then he'll go and tell all of his friends that I'm a wannabe ho. My name will be spat on, and drug across the mud, no one will stop it, they'll engage in the fun. Nothing tastes better than gossip, except feeling like you belong; so we'll keep mocking this girl for looking slutty but never fucking anyone.
That's just the way we are.
This is society, the culture from which we adapt, these are our friends, even we recognize then more from the side of their backs. We sacrifice the girls, all of the ladies, we treat them like property, like a dorm room hazing.
It's not just the act itself, or even the attempt, it's also about what those around us can never comprehend. You snorted that coke so obviously you'll take it up the ass, you chugged that whiskey, and so it's your fault because you shouldn't have been drinking.
You hooked up with that one guy, so obviously your easy, don't mind me if I slide my intentions up your smooth, and milky thigh. When you ask me why I did that, I'll deny, deny, deny, and no one will second guess the actions that I take, because you did respond to the first move that I made. Once your tongue is in my mouth, all logic is obsolete, you've given me the go, and....
That's just the way we are.
What does it matter what I have to say, I'm just some whore from along the way, bred in a place that puts the same value on women that we do anything that can be replaced. We deserve this though, it's all our faults, we shouldn't dress provocatively, because then it's clear what we want. We want you, you stupid piece of shit, obviously we want to play with your dick. Maybe I wasn't flirting, maybe I was uncomfortable, maybe I giggle when I'm going inside of myself, because there's trouble.
My heart completely disconnects from my brain, because they can't be together through this unfathomable pain. When it's over, I'll try and get help, but I won't call the cops, I won't file a report, they could take years to prosecute, and months to get into court, and that's only if I have the money to pay for a decent lawyer. I'll never put stock in the district attorney, me losing the case will not prevent them from earning.
My community is already talking, I can hear their whispers as I walk by, since my attacker was popular, people are prone to take his side. They'll look at me and say they're sorry, then go and tell their friends that I'm overtly naughty. They won't say it out loud, but it's because of how nonchalant I once was about showing my body.
The stupid questions persist, they insinuate that I'm a liar, nothing i say, and nothing that I do, will ever convince my own city of the horrors these eyes have witnessed, while trying to stay calm in order to get through this.
I am not the monster, I am not the enemy, I am not some sleaze, looking for everyone to talk about me. I am not a joke, I am not obsolete. He keeps acting so innocent and to his friends, it's easy to believe, and the only consolation that I have is knowing that he has to live what would he did to me, except I have to live with what he did to me; and what he did to my confidence, my self esteem, and what I now see when I look in the mirror, because he took so much of me.
20 years from now, who knows where I'll be, alone, and empty, looking for some kind of peace..while he and his friends, and his family pretend as though he did nothing. He'll have his kids, and I'll have my cat, he'll have his lovely wife, and in my bed I'll have a Louisville slugger baseball bat.
He'll have his job, and I my SSI, because PTSD apparently doesn't go away over night. He'll have his house, and his car, and his big screen T.V. but every now and then, someone that I know will run into me; then they'll say they're sorry, engage me in their pity, then they'll turn their back and still tell everyone that I'm slutty.
My once community, this place that I felt comfort, is now a cesspool of picking and choosing whose life is worth living, and whose is worth losing. It'll be trial be fire, as I'm up on the stake, how did me being victimized turn into me being a mistake. From my shoes, to my shirt, the make up on my face, he did this to me, and he'll only walk away. Some say community, I say piranha, there's blood on the water, so out pours the belittling and turning my tragedy into their gossip and drama.
That's just the way we are.
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