When I finally told you that my first boyfriend
raped me, I was worried you would be mad
When I finally told you that my first boyfriend
raped me, I was worried you would be mad
I hadn’t told you sooner. You and Dad believed so innocently
that you could keep me safe that it was difficult
to tell you that you had failed. I wanted to protect
you from the truth that protecting someone is impossible;
I was half-sick with the paradox of loving
men. When you nodded and said you were glad
I had waited to tell you I was relieved, and grateful.
You explained, “I think I am only just now mature enough
not to hop in my car and track that bastard down
and hit him in the face.” I know it is wrong too but
a part of me flushes with pleasure—not because
I wish pain on that first boyfriend but because
I enjoy the thought that I am worth fighting for.
It is an enjoyment, it occurs to me, suitably allotted
for a woman and is a kind of violence all its own.
