i was broken, once-- it felt as though my spine had slipped out of my body-- my calcium rack
decaying until all that lie on his bed was a heap of flesh-- my child flesh--
I was 18, and beautiful-- when he raped me, i wanted to die--
i didn’t know what was happening-- what that foreign feeling was in the pit of my body--
had never felt anything like this-- i had heard of sex-- had not wanted it-- not yet--
i wanted-- anything but this-- not this-- please--
He did not care.
innocence has a way of protecting you by hurting you-- meaning, he told me it was my fault--
said you shouldn’t have kissed me if you didn’t want this-- said it’s your fault-- i cried-- held my
head in my hands, tears streaming through my palms-- it burned, down there-- it burned-- he told
me I bled, said it with a smirk-- i blamed myself--
the next day after school, I went to CVS-- saw the family planning aisle for the first time--
googled on my phone how to prevent pregnancy-- saw the words Plan B-- when I went to the
cash register to buy it, the cashier, she-- she looked me up and down, raised her eyebrows-- as
though saying stupid kid-- i stared at my ripped up converse, ashamed-- passed her the $50 dollar
bill-- hid the pill in my backpack-- took it when I got home-- didn’t say a word, to anyone
i sometimes wish my first time had been something special-- roses and shit, you know-- the
flower petals on the bed, the candles, someone saying I love you-- cuddles after-- not me crying
and wishing i was dead-- wishing i was anywhere but here--
it took me several months to learn how to have sex-- i decided to try and do it casually, once-- to
have my own first time-- the first time i had sex after, i cried-- i mean, i started fucking sobbing
in this dude’s arms-- and he looked at me-- and just held me, without asking questions-- it was as
if he knew-- as if he knew I was having sex with him to try and forget the first time-- as if he
knew i was a rape survivor, somehow-- he told me about how he was in love with his
ex-girlfriend-- i told him he should just talk to her, ya know-- you’re a decent guy-- we laughed--
i can have sex now without crying-- it took three years-- but i can do it-- can have sex, i mean-- i
don’t think i’ll ever have sex like a normal person-- a non-traumatized person, i mean-- but it’s
still beautiful-- i have found people worth trusting with my body, i mean-- and i am learning to
feel safe in this body-- yet at times, i mourn for the eighteen-year-old me who lost her innocence
much too soon
Isabella Neblett is a 21-year-old student-activist, artist, writer, and poet from Houston, TX. She is currently studying creative writing and human rights with a focus on documentary spoken word poetry and nonfiction comics at Hampshire College. Her poetry, nonfiction, and photography have been published in Alloy Literary Magazine, Dreamers Creative Writing, Teen Ink, Glass Mountain, and Edible Magazine Houston. When she is not writing, you can find her reading dystopian romance novels, advocating for human rights, and playing with her dog, Holly.
