When it was happening, I didn’t think anything of it.
I thought that was love.
If he wanted sex, we would have sex.
I didn’t have much of a say in it.
I didn’t know I should have a say in it.
I remember feeling uncomfortable.
We would lay in bed and he would try to start something.
I would say I wasn’t in the mood.
He would get mad.
I would turn to him and say ok.
He would proceed.
I would pretend to climax, so he would finish and we could stop.
I still never thought anything of it.
After all, that was sex, right?
He should feel pleasure, I’m just the vessel.
Why should I feel pleasure?
Why should I take control of my body?
I remember the last time.
The worst time, in my mind.
We were in his dorm, sitting in his bed.
He wanted to have sex.
I did not want to.
I was on my period or something.
I said no.
He said yes.
He climbed on top of me and pulled my legs apart.
I squeezed them shut as tight as I could.
He was strong.
I said no.
He didn’t stop.
We broke up soon after.
I still think about him every day.
I think about the feelings every day.
The feelings of terror, rage, frustration, helplessness.
I can easily recall them.
I still feel the feelings.
I feel the sense of no control.
I feel the nausea.
I feel the hopelessness.
I feel the disgust.
The overwhelming realization that I have nothing.
I can do nothing.
I mean nothing.
I am just a body.
I am not me,
I am not mine.
I am his.
I am theirs.