TW: Rape, Sexual Assault, Child Sexual Abuse, Sexual Abuse


Hi. My name is Justine, and I’m tired of rape poems.
No, that’s not quite right. Let’s try again.
Hi. My name is Justine, and I hate rape poems.
Nope, still not it. Let’s try one more time.

Hi. My name is Justine. I’m a 19 year old poet.
And I, am so fucking exhausted because
The world won’t stop giving me all these
Damn reasons to write these rape poems.

I mean really, how complex is the word no?
How hard is it to know that my skirt isn’t
A fucking invitation? Keep your hands off me.
And no, you can’t touch my drink.

If there’s one thing I hate more than these damn rape
poems,
No. Wait. There are two things I hate more than these.
Whenever it’s brought up, someone has always got to be
“devil’s advocate” and say “What about false rape
accusations”!

Ninety seven of one hundred rapists won’t spend 
Even a single day locked in jail.
And you think your little “false accusation”
Is gonna ruin someone’s life?

The other thing I hate is that no matter how I bring it up,
Someone’s always gotta shriek “WHAT ABOUT THE MEN?”
Well if you would let me speak my damn mind
For two short minutes, I’ll get to the fucking men.

I want to address the women first. Because if I look up,
Away from my paper right now to see all of you,
Statistics say that 25% of you girls have been assaulted.
25% of you can see the scars hidden under my skin.

1 in 4 of you are, at this moment, feeling every hidden
Bruise and cut on your souls, while I talk.
And 1 in 12 men are reliving their memories,
Which is a horrible tragedy too.

But the reason I have to write these rape poems,
The reason we have slut walks and classes like
How Not to Rape 101 or Consent Basics,
Is because y’all still don’t know how to not rape!
I was 7 years old when you crawled into my bed 
With your little sister in tow. I can still see her smile.
I can feel your hands defiling my skin and covering
My soul in dirt and debris.

And I’m up here telling this damn rape poem.
I can remember my mother laughing at me as she
Recalled what they used to do to me, for two years.
My childhood was robbed from me.

And I’m so beyond mad. I’m really, really, really
Pissed off. Because I have to keep telling these
Fucking rape poems, like a goddamn broken record.
While I hear story after story of rape.

I was 17 and in my first year of college. A bright,
Promising year that should be full of life.
You smothered that from me and my so called
Friends in the fraternity turned their backs.

I am not a liar. But my new sorority thinks so
And when they don’t, they think that 
I must have done something to ask for it.
I wasn’t even an adult yet.

I am so livid, so furious. My rage boils
Under my skin until it erupts and spews
Lava along my bones. Ashes coat my
Organs and preserve them into statues.

And I still 
write 
these 
rape poems.

I was 14 years old when we met, and you
Stapled a price tag onto my body before
Throwing me into the ring, waiting
For the sharks to swarm.

You’re dead now, and I’m still fighting.
Sometimes, I think I deserved it.
That’s what society teaches me, anyway.
But I’m alive, and I am strong.

I can’t figure out my own sexual orientation.
He conditioned me to believe things that I didn’t,
Taught me to love things that I had hated.
Does my trauma define me? How can it not?

If I could tell him anything at all, I'd tell him
that control may have been his forte
and maybe he's still a master at it,
but I'll never bend to his will again.

To the 21 year old me, it wasn't your fault.
To my first rapist--the first man to ignore no
and to pretend that I could not speak for myself,
why? You could have asked me, so why?
To my ex husband who put his hands on me
when all I had ever done was offer every
bit of love I owned within my own heart,
did you have to wring it out of me like soiled laundry
and slosh it all over the floor? 
Did you have to be the scum of the earth,
bound to me by vows and a ring on my finger? 
Why?

I'm tired of rape jokes and rape poems but
I'm still having to write rape poems
and I'm still having to put up with unfunny jokes
that tell me my pain isn't worth suffering.

I'm tired of telling my friends that I'll never be the
same,
that the me you once knew was murdered--strangled
when control of my own body was ripped away and
smothered in my own tears can't you love me for the new me?

To every person I have ever told my story to
but you still insisted that rape jokes were FUNNY,
please explain to me why my assault is so hilarious
PLEASE elaborate why my stolen dignity is so amusing.

I am 19 years old telling this rape poem to a room
full of strangers because no one gives half a fucking penny
to all the survivors I know and spoke to to collect
the experience needed for this poem.

Hi, my name is Justine. And I'm tired of talking about
rape.
Hi, my name is Justine. And I'm tired of repeating the same
story,
twisted and bent until it's different but underneath the
names
the rules, the ages, the people it's all the same damn
thing.

I'm 19 years old and I have heard more tales of regret,
pain, heartbreak, and desecration than I care to admit.
I'm 19 years old and I know more people who will never
have their justice than I would dare to talk about.

The thing I hate the most about these fucking rape poems
is that I'm up here spilling my heart and a dozen others
and the world will still be the same tomorrow morning.
Hi my name is Justine. And this poem won't change a thing.