SIMPLY ELABORATE blog

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we had to write about rape in my creative writing class a couple of weeks ago. i’ve been putting off posting this poem on here because it affected me too much to do it. i’ve finally done it. it’s here. not broken up, not one big long paragraph because HTML isn’t working. it’s just here.

waiting to be read. it was my first A in creative writing. i’d never gotten an A before. i had never thought my first creative writing assignment mark would come from this.

“enjoy”. as a disclaimer; it may be a little harsh for some people.

---

i smile
as i walk
home
wrap my winter
coat
around my waist
to strengthen
warmth

i hear
footsteps
but think
no different
than a fellow
scholar scurrying
to the heat
of home

i slow down
to let them
walk around
my slow pace
and realize
i should have
sped up
instead

my throat
clenches
in fear
with an unknown
arm
wrapped
around its
frailty

the familiar
surrounding
becomes
an open mouth
horror
fright
a forever
altered view

my feet drag
along the
asphalt
my fingers
entwine
with the
chainlinked fence
as one

i feel sweat
running down
my neck
i feel dizzy
my eyes
darting
about to
scream

stop

around my throat
is no arm
down my neck
is no sweat
against my throat
is metal
down my neck
is blood

just enough
he says
so you’ll be
scared enough
that i can feel it
but awake enough
so you can
too

it’s my
fault
i should have
listened
and walked the
other way
like mommy
always said

if i’d worn
pants
it would not
be so simple
to rip my tights
underneath
my kilt
right now

these things
i wish
as he becomes
the first
to cup my breast
to whisper dirty
thoughts
unwanted

i try
to look
remember
eyes
stubble
tattoo
breath
but i can’t

already
trying
to forget
the way he
used one finger
to trace
and then jam where
he shouldn’t

so numb
and clenched
in panic
hoping to
be enough
to resist
to no
avail

i’ve been
punctured
no other way
to describe
the feeling
of his
manhood
inside

i think
i’m crying
but i can’t
tell
i’m trying
to move away
the metal
deepens

stop

i can’t
breathe
but i’m not
sure
if i’m even
trying to
i just want it
to be done

he’s speaking
to me
like i care about
what he has
to say
moaning his
corrupt
happiness

my mind
changes
and i suddenly
want him
to slice
me open
to sweat out
my pain

thrashing
my body
trying to
entice him
to cut again
instead
he removes
himself

stop

comes closer
to my
face
and says
he’ll have to
shut me up
some other
way

i see it
in every form
of its
ugliness
of its
stiffness
i want to
rip it off

so he may
feel
something so
precious
taken from
him and
never
given back

his hand
on my chin
prying my
jaw open
i bite down
he throws my
skull in
retaliation

it’s unfair
that he gets
to retaliate
and i am
forced to
take it
just the way
he likes it

i don’t know
what he
expects me
to do
with his
organ
waiting to be
pleasured

do i look older
or experienced
does he think
i know what
to do
with this thing
sitting
there

about to
bite or
scrape
just something
to get it
out
he leans in
again

stop

don’t even
think of
playing a
little hero
he says
the metal
warm with
blood

suddenly
i hear
someone
not just
someone
a big hero
who just
walks by

doesn’t even
notice
but it’s
enough
to scare
his organ
his metal
away

i wait
until this
unknown
someone
continues past
and i
get up

and i
run
and i
run
and i
run
and i
run

stop

I look over to her and ask her if it’s okay to go upstairs like always. She says okay and leaves the room. I slowly get up and turn to look at him. He stares at me with unsuspecting eyes as I hold out my hand.

“Come with me,” I say. He gets up and takes hold of my outstretched palm. I slowly lead us up the stairs and we pause when we reach the door to her room. “I want to show you her room,” I whisper quietly and open the door.

It’s the same as it’s always been: untouched since she left. The bedspread never been changed because nobody had ever been in it since its last wash. The dried flowers perched upon the headboard in a sort of perfect stance that could never be tampered with. All the things that made the room appear as though a regular fifteen year old girl inhabited it. But it didn’t. Not anymore.

“It’s not something incredibly big, but in some weird way, I like that it’s been unchanged. It’s like something will always stay the same.” I move toward the centre of the room, finally letting go of his hand. He looks uncomfortable, yet at ease, it’s the same way I felt the first time I entered the room. I sit down on the bed and he does the same. “I used to read her diary. Her mother never could, because she felt like it was an invasion of her privacy, which it is. I just couldn’t help myself to know if she really did tell me everything.”

“Did she?” He asks, looking up at me.

“She told me everything that was important. So nothing really that’s in a fifteen-year-old’s diary is,” I reply, looking away. I slowly run my hand along the embroidery in her bedspread. We’re quiet for a moment, both unsure of what to say. I look in her mirror across from us and stare at myself. I look so much older than the last time I saw the same scene. I dart my eyes in his direction and see that he’s doing the same, although he’s trying to read me, my thoughts. He’s not the first one, which is why I can tell that’s what he’s doing. “Hmm. I wonder …” I drift off,

“What?” He asks. I lean forward and run my hand down the dresser drawers, trying to remember and believing that my fingers will jog my memory. I pause once I get to the top drawer and open it. Inside is filled with junk that has now turned into precious scrap that she has touched. I reach into the drawer, all the way in the back, and feel a small box, one usually meant for diamond rings or earrings. I pull it out and he looks confused as I smile up at him. I open the velvet box and inside is a small baggy half full with decomposing marijuana. We both laugh.

“You knew about this?” He chuckles.

“I found it once right after, when I was up here for hours just staring at her things. I hoped her mother wouldn’t find it, so I hid it in the back of the drawer. I guess she didn’t,” I shrugged. We’re quiet again as I put the weed back where it came from. And I look up at him again.

“I know what everyone says. That it gets easier with time. And if you just come to terms with your feelings that everything will fall into place, go back to normal. I know when people ask you if you want to talk they don’t really mean it, because they wouldn’t know what to say. And I know what it feels like to have someone look at you and have everything they ever thought of you, every memory, be replaced by this one thing that gets trademarked by your name. I know that when they say ‘I understand’ they really don’t, and they can’t, no matter many times you choose to talk about it. And I know that you don’t want to talk about it. Because that’s all everyone seems to want to talk about. And that sucks. Because they keep saying to try and get on with life, and things must go on, but the second you actually try, they look at you with these stupid sympathy eyes that say ‘I know you’re not ready and you’re only doing this for my benefit’ and you want to yell at them for being hypocrites. But the truth is they’re right. All you do want to do is sit at home and watch reruns of shows that you’ll remember watching with them and try and brand every memory you have in your brain so they don’t start to fade away with time, because that I can tell you for sure, the memories you have, they will fade. And that’s what hurts even more than anything. The guilt you have when you can’t even remember your best friend anymore. Maybe that’s why it does get easier. Once the memories start to fade, you won’t think of them every second of your day,” I conclude. We’re quiet again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to come out like that, and so much,” I say as my eyes start to tear, which I hate because I’m usually very good at keeping them dry.

“No, it’s okay. It’s actually pretty right on,” he replies. I just shrug my shoulders in understanding. My hands fidget with each other, like I have no control, until he slowly moves his hand over to mine and encompasses it. I look up and there are tears in his eyes, and it shocks me, because I’ve never seen him cry.

“I don’t want you to cry,” I murmur, putting my hand on his cheek. “But you can if you want.” And he does. He really does. It’s like he hasn’t ever done it before and he lets go, quietly and forcefully at the same time. I’m unsure if I should hug him, if that would be going too far, but then I realize that we’ve probably gone farther than we ever have, so I do. I hug him and he grips me so hard I can hardly breathe, although I don’t really notice until we’ve let go and I inhale deeply to catch my breath,

I look past him at the ticking clock on the end table. According to the time, we’ve been in the room for almost an hour. I look back at him.

“We’d better go, her mom probably thinks we’re doing it,” I joke. He laughs. I smile. I wait for him to get up before I do and I follow him to the door. When he steps outside, I stop. “I think I just need a moment alone.” He nods in understanding.

“I’ll wait out here.”

I close the door slowly and turn around. I walk towards the bed and smooth out the bedspread from where we were sitting, the surface is warm. I haven’t been in the room for so long but to me it looks different, even though I know her mother hasn’t changed it. And I wonder if it looks different to her too, her mother, I mean. If she comes in here every so often and sees that the clock needs to be changed an hour ahead or an hour behind. Or that the furniture surface never needs to be dusted and the dried flowers never grow mold.

I back out of the room and open the door. He’s waiting for me, just like he said. And that makes me smile.

“Thank you,” I say.

“I was just about to say the same thing,” he says back, outstretching his arm, indicating for me to walk ahead of him. I chuckle a bit and walk forward, my eyes never leaving his as I pass. I feel my hand touch his, and realize that he’s intertwining his fingers with my own.

And that makes me smile even more.

i feel alone
empty
no one understands
never will
in this hole
with a small opening
able to climb out
easily
but won’t
that means facing reality
confronting everything
that’s confusing
making the climb
unbearable
unmanagable
unwanted
though if i turn
see through the darkness
away from the opening
i can see you
not understanding
but waiting
to follow me out
when ready

© 2005 emilia farrace

I feel like crying. But I’ve got no tears.
I feel like writing. But I’ve got no thoughts.
I feel like screaming. But I’ve got no voice.
I feel like talking. But I’ve got no one to talk to.
I feel like sitting in silence. But I feel restless.
I feel like explaining. But I can’t.

There are just too many excuses that my feelings seem irrelevant.