Hi My Name Is Justine

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.