“Me Too.” The movement
that has made assault a trend, a topic, a hashtag.
Such a casual gesture for tremendous toil.
Tell me, Mrs. Me Too, how can you help
16-year-old me, pinned down in the back
of a Ford Explorer parked in a dark forest.
As it was happening, I watched the tall pines
shiver around me, their coniferous
indifference. I imagined the trees bent in prayer,
flags flying at half mast. Sexual assault
is not a collective, it is
an individual, lonely experience. It is
a soul wrung dry, it’s pieces shaken
Into the sink, clogging the pipes.
Once you politice sex, dragging it
Into a courtroom, a giant hashtag
stamped over your mouth, silencing
your own unique experience? What good
is pronouncing it on Twitter, watching
my ghost scroll down the screen
into oblivion? Trauma is not a collective,
it’s not a movement. Rape is not
a sport you can play, because the ball
has been stuck in your throat
since it happened. I need a hug, a blanket, a
Scarf. I want to dig a hole and hibernate.
When you politicize sex it becomes
An issue. Rape is not an issue–issues
Are boxes of delegation. My pain doesn’t fit
In that box. It’s more like a toxic vapor that snakes
In all directions, sucking the Earth’s nutrients. I see myself
dancing in that poison, my body slowly disintegrating
until all that’s left
is a head
with no memory.