Molly’s Story: Reclaiming My Story

Grass stains on my back and blood in my jeans
I gain consciousness while my body is jerked like a rag doll
My eyes focus on the hazy streetlights as I try to make sense of my surroundings
I hear his zipper as he’s walking away
So, I pull up my jeans and stumble back to the party
I start to rearrange the reality into something more bearable;
I wanted this.
But my virginity was not supposed to be taken in a classmate’s yard without my consent
It was supposed to be given to someone who cared, who deserved it
So I follow him as he ignores me determined to make that my story
Only to realize we are not lovers, not even friends
He pretends nothing happened so I settle on rejection over rape because who at 18 could accept that truth?
I absorb this belief as it sinks its teeth into my self esteem
Creating deep wounds, I won’t uncover for years
Slut.
The blame falls on me when she finds out, and I start to see the truth
I am the scapegoat
I am something to be hidden in the shadows of shame
I am nothing to him but a body that conveniently couldn’t fight back
But rather than make anyone uncomfortable I accept my new truth
I let this happen
As if I had any say while unconscious on the ground
With no one in my corner I accept my fate as a slut, a bitch, a mess.
I am at fault, I am unworthy.
A bad friend. A bad person.
I am nothing.
So I resolve to become nothing to myself
Detached and casual about sex; because at least that’s still my choice
But I’m a party girl with a secret; this isn’t really me. I didn’t really want this.
But it’s too late now.
So I swallow every hope I had for my own love story
With the morning after pill he begged me to take.