Breathe?

I was raped by someone I had a sexual relationship with for years. Someone who I mistakenly thought I loved.

Healing from that was a really difficult process of journeying through tons of gray area and realizing some tough shit about myself and my views on love.

The following is a poem I wrote about those realizations:

Breathe?

To the man who took my breath away:

The first time you looked at me, my heart skipped a beat.

Your eyes swallowed me whole,

They shot into me.

Your gaze, unbroken,

I was hopelessly devoted to discovering the answers to every inquiry you had of me.

It left me mute.

Unable to speak.

The first time you looked at me, my heart skipped a beat.

I said yes.

You listened.

The first time you tried to kiss me, I said no.

You listened.

I wished you hadn't.

I wished you'd known I wanted your hand on my waist, your other holding my face.

I wanted you to hit replay,

To delay the time before I walked away,

To make me put into words all the thoughts I couldn't say,

For you to sweep me off my feet.

You know, all the old cliches.

I wanted you to take my breath away.

The first time you looked at me, my heart skipped a beat.

I said yes.

You listened.

The first time you tried to kiss me, I said no.

You listened.

The last time you looked at me, my heart skipped a beat.

I said no.

You didn't listen.

Your eyes swallowed me whole,

Consuming each and every unique layer of me,

Devouring my trust, my love, our past, my power.

Your gaze, now broken, endlessly unsteady.

Why couldn't you look at me?

Were you afraid you'd see your own toxic masculinity, your fear of your femininity?

Or maybe you feared you'd remember that I was an actual human being,

Not just a body with holes,

Here only for you.

Your kiss became an apology.

As if your lips were desperately sorry for your hands gripping me,

For the body on top of me,

For completely eviscerating me.

It left me mute,

Unable to speak.

The last time you looked at me, my heart skipped a beat.

The last time you tried to kiss me, I said no.

You didn't listen.

Your hands - the same ones I wanted to hold my waist, my face --

To hold.

Hold: (verb) 1. To have possession or ownership of, to have at ones disposal; 2. To keep under restraint; 3. To have or maintain in the grasp; 4. To prevent from leaving or getting away

Your hands - the same ones I wanted to hold my waist, my face - now seemed different.

Bigger. Rougher.

They moved to my neck.

I tried to tap out,

Like when you’re playing.

Like a kid.

You weren’t playing,

And we weren’t kids.

Just trust he knows when to let go.

He’s not gonna kill you.

A small part of me smirked: The irony of trusting the man who was raping me to not kill me.

You didn’t let go.

And as your grip strengthened, thoughts rushed through my head like the blood to my face:

"I shouldn't have had that last drink."

“I know better than to get myself in this position.”

"I shouldn't be alone with a boy in a room unless this is where I want it to lead."

And as your grip strengthened, thoughts rushed through my head like the blood to my face:

"I'm not that girl."

"I'm not the girl who is willing to put her body at risk for a man's attention, and I will not mistake that attention for love."

"I'm not that girl."

It left me mute,

Unable to speak.

And all these thoughts served as the basis for this thesis,

This one that I've tried to escape,

This one that seems to transcend time and place,

This one that I never thought would accompany a rape:

I wanted you to take my breath away.

I wanted you to make my heart skip a beat,

To leave me mute,

Unable to speak.

I wanted you to take my breath away.

You listened.