Another Rape Poem

“Another rape poem.” I have now lost the attention of the boys in my class. They all sigh, put their feet up, and roll their eyes. They mutter words like feminist, social justice warrior. Bitch. They tune me out, my pain and struggle only being white noise to their ignorant ears. That is rape culture. When speaking of sexual assault, they sigh and say “Well, why don't they just dress appropriately?” All I want to do is yell, and scream until my voice is hoarse enough to be mistaken for a mans and they will finally listen to me. I am tired. I am tired of fighting a war against the world. A world that wants to take my words and turn me into nothing, but skin and bones. Statistics and numbers. Body and object. I am tired. Tired of fighting against my closest friends. Against the people I love most. Because 93% of sexual assault victims know their attacker. 34% of attackers are family members. Because when I am fighting against rape culture I am not just fighting against creeps in alleyways. I am fighting business executives, and teachers, and soldiers, and uncles and the repetitive songs on the radio. I'm fighting high school dropouts and college graduates. Im fighting women's magazines and doctors and salesman and police officers. I am fighting the world one “Stupid Rape Poem” and “Social Activist Fit” at a time. Because no matter how many times I cry out. No matter how many times I scream. I will only be white noise to them.