Untitled

By Anonymous

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. 
Please. 
No. 
Stop. 

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. 
An object. 
A thing. 

I am not me, 
I am not mine. 

I am his. 
I am theirs.