this is a poem about sexual coercion.

and all the ways we try to pretend it wasn’t.

authors note:

some things are easier to write than to say.

some things sit in the body long after they’ve left the room.

this is one of those things.

tw: sexual coercion, dissociation, metaphorical self-harm

please read gently. please come back to yourself after.

—

they call it flirting
when they press a hand too low on your back.
(not like it belongs there,
but like they do)

they call it foreplay
when they corner you with eyes,
with suggestions that aren’t really questions.
they call it chemistry
when your breath tightens,
and your voice disappears into the drywall.
when your laugh thins into survival.
they mistake stillness
for seduction.
retreat
for rhythm.

they don’t know you.
not your name,
not the skeletons in your closet,
nor the ghosts of past and present (and future)
not what kind of silence 
makes you reach
for a knife or a blade
(is it for them or for you?)

they know heat,
and hips,
the surface of you,
and the easiest way to unbutton it, too.
the way your legs look folded (forced?) open
in red lighting.

they know how to make it feel
like you offered yourself
when really
you were just trying to leave the room
without making a sound.

and they call that liking you.

they’ll say they miss you
without ever having asked
what you were running from.
they’ll say you’re different
just to see if the words
make your thighs soften.

you don’t scream.
you don’t push them off.
you just stop breathing so loudly.
you laugh a little,
make it light,
try not to startle the moment
into violence.
because it’s easier than saying 
stop
and having to explain 
why.

so you fake it.
moan softly.
arch just enough
to make it believable.
play the part
so it’s over 
faster.
because if they think 
you like it,
they won’t get rough.
they won’t get angry.
they’ll finish 
and leave.
and you’ll still be here.
(mostly.)

afterward,
you find a smear of red;
faint,
but not imagined.
not the kind
you were expecting.

he doesn’t flinch.
just says something about timing.
smiles like it’s normal,
like it’s your body’s fault
for reacting that way.

you nod.
because correcting him
would mean admitting
you noticed too.

and later,
you sit in the shower like it’s a confessional
and ask the water
if it counts as consent
when you didn’t fight back hard enough.

you try to scrub their touch off your skin,
knees like broken wings
tucked beneath your ribs,
as if folding smaller
could erase the memory.

the air feels too thick to breathe.
your skin feels borrowed.
your mouth tastes like apology.

there is a part of you,
quiet and patient,
that wonders
what it might feel like
to unravel.
not loudly.
just enough
to feel something shift.

you think about disappearing
not in a tragic way,
but in the way fog disappears
when no one’s looking.
how lovely it would be.

you imagine bruises
that bloom inward.
little violences
you can carry in secret.
small griefs
you can cradle like pets.

not to die.
just to hollow.
just to quiet the ache
with something that feels
like choosing.

the thought
wraps itself around your ankles
like bath steam.
lingering.
invisible.
always there
when you’re alone.

to them, 
you were never a person.
just 
a 
yes.

you were an unlocked door.
a mouth to fill.
a softness to sink into
when the world left them unsatisfied.
not a soul.
not a storm.
not something soft and sweet and human.

they’ll tell you they “just got carried away.”
as if women are rivers,
meant to be crossed
even when the current says no.
as if the heat of their hands
burns hotter than the sun.
than your voice.
than the heavy thud in your chest
screaming
get me out
get me out
get me out.

they will forget you.
they always do.
but you?
you will carry them
like something rotting
in the crevices of your mouth.

they will never write about you.
they will not remember
what your eyes did
when they touched you
without asking.
they will forget the way you folded
into your clothes afterward.
the way your laugh
never quite returned the same.

and you
you will convince yourself
it wasn’t so bad.
you’ll call it a gray area,
call it a hookup,
call it your fault
for not fighting harder.

you will touch yourself
like it’s an apology.
you will wake up
and check if the bruise is metaphorical.
you will try
to write it into a poem
because you’re afraid
it doesn’t count
unless you name it.

you’ll think:
maybe I wanted it.
maybe I’m too sensitive.
maybe next time I’ll be better
at saying no
with teeth.

but you did say no.
with your eyes.
with the inch between your bodies.
with the way your hands
didn’t reach back.

they just didn’t care to listen.

this is not a rare story.
it’s a system.
a pattern.
a rhythm taught too early
and punished too late.

the new breed of violence
is quieter.
it wears cologne.
says “good morning”
texts “u up?”
but they never want to hear you speak 
(or learn how long you’ve been holding your breath)

they don’t want the truth of you.
only the outline.
only the warmth.
only the parts that open
without needing to be known.

they’ll reach for the skin
and run from the story.

they’ll take your body
but leave your name behind
on the floor 
(right next to your bra.)

and when it’s over…
if you shake
or cry
or freeze

they’ll say:
“you never said stop.”

but what they mean is:
you didn’t scream loud enough
to make me feel guilty.

and that’s all they really need:
a reason not to feel
what they’ve done.

but you will feel it.
in the mirror.
in your walk.
in the way you don’t answer the phone anymore.
in the way you touch yourself
only with the lights off.

this is not what love (or like) feels like.
but they said it was.
so many times
that you
you started to believe them.

but there is no softness in theft.
no closeness in conquest.
no comfort in being called beautiful
with your mouth shut
and your body still.

and you
you are the one who remembers.
the one who carries it.
the one who wakes up
with his fingerprints
still echoing in the skin.

you will not heal clean.
this won’t become a poem
about rising.
(not yet.)

this ends
like it always does:

you,
naked under someone
who never knew your favorite color,
saying nothing,
because even now
you’re still afraid
to make him feel bad.

—
alternative ending:

but one day
you will stop calling it closeness.
you will stop mourning
what never saw you clearly.

you will remember
that stillness is not consent,
that shrinking is not softness,
that your body was never the villain
in their story.

and you will not be perfect in your healing.
you will still flinch.
still question.
still feel the echo some nights
when a kind hand moves too fast.

but you will know
what you didn’t know then:

that you were never hard to love.
they were just too careless to try.

and slowly,
with rage and with grace,
you will build a world
where your yes is sacred,
and your no
is never up for debate.

for anyone who sees themselves in this —

what happened to you was not your fault.

you are not dirty.

you are not broken.

your body is still yours.

your softness is not to blame.

you are allowed to take as long as you need to heal,

and you never have to make art from your pain

to prove it was real.

please drink some water.

open a window.

text someone who knows your middle name.

you are not alone in this.