[I wrote a poem/spoken word thingy.]
I still can’t decide if what happened was sexual assault.
I want to say to myself, “You were drunk. It’s not your fault.”
But who went over willingly to his place? That was me.
Who poured the vodka down my throat? Also me.
And I never said, “no,” so how could it be?
Except… When I said, “Let’s watch a movie,” I actually meant it.
But I barely got to see any of Ferris Beuler’s Day Off
Because he must have heard, “Now take my clothes off.”
I never would have let him do it if I were sober…
Wait, now I remember… He made me drink more.
Look, I know this would never go over in court, and that’s fine.
But I have to know for myself, was that decision really mine?
I felt like I had no choice. He’d already done it to me,
So I just figured that’s how it had to be.
The punch line is that they call this love “free.”
You took something that you can’t give back,
And for a week I had nightmares:
So… Was it sexual assault? Who cares what you call it. It hurt me.
They say that time heals, but that’s not really true.
All this time later, and I’m still haunted by you.
So no, time doesn’t heal. Healing heals. Jesus heals.
He can and wants to redeem… everything.
What’s done is done. It’s over. And now I’m healing.