“If you put your heart in other peoples hands, they’ll drop it. They’ll drop it every time.”
At first I wouldn’t have used that word to describe what you did. But over the past few months it has replayed in my memory like a horrible nightmare:
It was our first time. You were at my apartment and we decided to break the silence of our desires for each other. A steamy shower to start, you then walked me to my bed, pushed me down and spread my legs wide. A fantasy in the flesh.
You asked me if I wanted more and I responded “I don’t know, I feel kind of sore.” You pouted like a childish boy and said “I think she can handle it.”
You pushed my legs farther apart and inched your way closer, eventually shoving yourself inside of me as I winced in pain, and you–emotionally unaffected to my screams, didn’t stop. I kept repeating,”It really hurts.”
You invaded me without my permission and proudly slept next to me as I secretly bled into my sheets.
Yesterday, as I flashed back to this day, I panicked. I screamed. I cried. I felt ashamed and afraid. As it replayed in my head over and over, I decided that something was wrong. I had never felt disgusted, violated like this before.
I never used that word to describe an experience until yesterday. And I never thought I’d write about it until today.
