Like Donald Trump said, I couldn’t be raped. I wasn’t pretty enough. And even if I was, it couldn’t be classified as rape, men are just going after what they wanted and “grabbing it by the pussy.”
What if we danced? What if we loved?
Honestly, I thought about how I was going to propose to you. I pictured myself waiting in front of the altar, watching you walk towards me.
My brain plays these terrible tricks on me. I analyze our old conversations and try to find where I was unlovable. I pick at my skin and look for answers in my smile. Was I not pretty enough?
I need to be honest and the only place I can write honestly is a Snapchat message, so I’m writing this to you in the app, and then I’ll copy and paste it over to Gmail.
I pray that you never again touch another girl the way you touched me.
Just know that there isn’t a day that passes that I don’t think about you. Not a day that I don’t wish I was seeing your name light up on my screen again.
My rapist doesn’t think he’s a rapist.
She was the little person in my ear, constantly telling me how horrible I am, at EVERYTHING. I needed her out of my life.
But now as you wait to give up your child for theirs, with him right by your side, you feel the all-encompassing force of the love you held for him, slowly metastasize into hate.