Graffiti Touch
Like blissful ignorance,
the day was beautiful.
The sun shone down,
warming smooth baby-like skin
the sounds of happy children
climbing toys and racing across green grass.
I remember watching them walk closer
from my spot on the grass,
behind a tree that sat just out of the teacher's view.
One boy, two girls.
The transition is foggy,
then steel bands wrapped around my body,
pinning my arms like useless wet noodles,
mouth squeezed shut by pudgy, ten-year-old fingers
and small, weak male hands
that would never stand a chance one-on-one
crept closer
Touching areas no one had ever before.
My legs, my strongest assets, somehow never quite
reaching their frenzied marks.
And when it was over, I was silent
as the bell rang and I slowly walked inside.
Someone later told me that it could have been worse.
That it could have been skin against skin instead of
skin against cloth,
that I hadn't quite developed a chest yet,
so I wasn't really violated when he touched me there.
But they didn't feel ripped open for cold eyes to see,
And branded like cheap, living slabs of meat before the
slaughter house.
I was always told my body was a private, sacred temple,
But he broke in and graffitied my with his touch.
I kept it a secret the whole day,
Too confused and filled with mixed emotions to know
what to do.
But on the drive home with my mom
I spilled everything.
Like a mama bear protecting her cub,
She was out for blood.
But I also remember,
through tear-filled eyes, streams running down flushed cheeks,
Asking her not to tell.
I didn't want them to get into trouble.
Or maybe I felt ashamed,
like I was the one who did something wrong.
But only rapists cause the rape,
only molesters commit the assault,
and victim is a bad word for it because
we are survivors.
It is never your fault.