It was March.

As always, I got home late. But this time,

this time,

my head was sore, hair pulled

prodded

yanked, as a handle 

for my apparently convenient mouth.

I reeked of Kingsport.

The shower held me that night, 

not my father,

not my mother,

and certainly not 

my boyfriend.

Because he loved me, 

he couldn't be with me after I

chose

to be

raped.

I agreed.

I took the blame,

the shame,

every name

high school friends could call me.

I told my dad.

Worst mistake of my life.

The Wal-Mart parking lot saw me slam the van door,

tears staining an already soiled face,

as he told me that,

because he loved me,

I couldn't wear shorts anymore

because I

chose

to be

raped.

I disagreed this time.

I told him the only fault

was on a teenage boy who thought he earned me

earned my consent

through the claims that he loved me.

Because he loved me, 

he said, 

he had to show me just how good he could make it

even when I cried

kicked

cursed

and begged him not to

If that was good, 

I don't want to know what bad is.

Because these men loved me,

I had the guilt

built upon

17 years in my female body

I was told I was the weaker sex.

This time, I disagree.