The sound of self-condemnation.

They took my silence for consent.

I didn't want to be called "a tease".
And when I told the one man I trusted,
the one person I would never betray,
he just looked away at the cracks
on the surface of the choir room,
because rape is far different than regret.
They can't be classified together.

Then why do I feel raped?
Of choice, of courage, of innocence?
It was assumed I would do anything.
After all, I had advertised an excavation
of treasures I knew were too precious
for me to sell.

When I was at my lowest, I wanted
someone to intervene and say no,
that this was akin to coddling death;
I wished nothing but the end
when he turned me around and around
and I flopped into a cold bed -
lifeless eyes, a heart somehow
still pumping blood.

Fear kept me in his grasp,
clinging to anything I could find
in case he decided to follow me home,
take my license number,
threaten my family.
In case he stalked me and told the
world I could never be a girl again.

Harsh notes, nowhere near the
symphonies you created with the love
of God in your lungs, are what
met my ears,
because nothing good or fruitful
could come of such a beastly
physical thing.

And I mourn the delicate way
I used to regard life;
now the men that follow my
shadow are simply
catastrophic events I must avoid.