Consent.

[Trigger warning: sexual assault]

Can I be mad at you for causing me to find all men disgusting and for highlighting all the slightly sexist,  misogynistic things they don’t mean seriously in the slightest?

Can I blame you entirely for my heightened awareness of and my tendency to violently respond to each and every comment that hints at something that could suggest a disrespect of women? Of Me?

Can I say you’re the cause of my need to disagree with everything even the loveliest man says to me just so I can show my words matter and I should be respected – this time?

Can I attribute my understanding of “It’s only funny until it happens to you”? entirely to your lesson?

Can I think I see your face and hear your fucked, lying words everytime he opens his mouth and tells me he cares?
Can I know it’s you who’s made it impossible for me to see any worth inside this head or in my words and instead only in my body?

Can I tell you that you’ve put me on a crusade now to right all the potential wrongs I come across because I wasn’t able to right the wrong you did to me?

Say Yes. Give me a Yes, screamed out into the wild from the rooftop or from the top of a mountain. Emphatic. Etched onto my forehead, burnt into my wrist.  Stitched into everyone’s collar. Written in the sand with a twig on a deserted beach, pebbles on the dirt spelling out the letters in the Woods. A one word email to “allstaff@domain.com”. A batman type symbol in the sky.

How’s that for consent, you piece of shit?

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