Submission Forty-Five

"There are so many beautiful andrea gibson poems that give me hope, like this one." ~Submitted by Ashlee Gray


hopefully this will give people who have been through sexual assault or any sort of harsh relationship situation some hope:

This Is Me Not Hiding
At the lowest point in my life I was screaming at you to hit me.
I was screaming at you to hit me in defense of my rapist.
Everything was still spinning from that night so I couldn't place the blame straight.
I wanted you to hit me because it would make up for all the things I had no control over.
Because I let everyone tell me I deserved it. Because you were itching for revenge.
And because I would hit you too and it would make up for having not have been able to fight back.

But you didn't hit me, you hit him.
With a crowd circling around like they had never seen such action.
And you didn't do it for me, but for my offenders girlfriend (let me tell you I was not his first victim).
And for yourself, because the thought of me sleeping with someone else
meant that we would not be getting back together and meant that you really didn't own me.
It meant a lot fucking more than that but you never cared to ask.
No one asked. No one asked me if I said no. No one asked me if I was ok.
I didn't know the answer to the last one anyways.
I couldn't think.
Not with you screaming at me through your phone, calling me out
to meet you, if I dared.
Not with the hateful messages flooding my inbox.
I couldn't feel anything.
Until that crowd had been crowded around me.
Until I was screaming at you to hit me.
Until I realized this was happening to me.

How soon "I love you" can be replaced with "I hate you" is more than disturbing.

And when you moved the fight away from me,
I crawled under that bridge where homeless people go to shoot up and girls go to give head.
I crawled under that bridge to die like a dog.
Like a dog with no thumbs to pull the razor blade out of the pencil sharpener.
I was so young.

And right on cue you called me, to take back the things you said,
like the impulsive noncommital fucker you are, who can't throw a punch at me with your fists but sure can with a text message.
I decided I must live.I had to survive.
I was too pissed off to die. I had to take this experience and get the hell out of that life.
I had to, one day, tell my story of survival.

A Bellingham poet once advised to sing of your victories. Do not hide. Well this isn't really a song but it's close.
This is the story illistrating where my victory began: under a bridge, covered in tears, ready to live.
And it has ended with me being able to answer that question no one would ask.
"Are you ok?"
Yes. I am.

~Submitted & Written by Ashlee Gray