#notavictim

 

I can hear them, the voices, the shouts,

the cries of hurt and solidarity.

Me too, moi aussi, anch’io

no boundaries.

 

I could add my voice.

I remember the chaffing of the rope,

the cut of serrated steel,

the boot shaped bruises.

The entering of my person was in fact the least of the violations.

He still did not possess me.

 

I remember fear,

real knicker wetting fear,

nine inches of lifetime guaranteed steel

at my throat.

Short lifetime.

I could make a joke about the six inches he had in his trouser pocket

but it doesn’t seem right.

 

Oh I can bring the bloody bodily fluids back

right now.

But what purpose will it serve?

I have buried them deep

where they need to be.

The wounds have healed

they do not need to be reopened and examined

by the noise of a Yale lock

or hashtags of me too.

 

There's been a lot on social media recently revolving around #metoo. This has got me thinking - I do occasionally. I have been on the receiving end of some fairly awful violence, albeit 30 years ago, and for the most part, have moved on, don't think about it, am ok. This #metoo has raked up some things, I'd rather were still in Pandora's box, I don't need to rexamine them. I'm also not sure that this mass identification with being a victim is actually all that great. It has turned anyone who has been abused in any form, into just that - a victim. Surely we should be saying bollocks to you, I'm strong and I am not a victim. Anyway, a poem flowed from my fingers onto the page and here it is - raw and unedited. I'm not sure I want to edit it, even if it needs it. Trust me, this is not a sympathy puller - it's just how it is.