What Matt The Rapist Did To Me
I.
Let me tell you what Matt the Rapist did to me.
First, and most importantly, he didn't like my
shorts.
Later, when we dated, we told the story
of how we met like it was funny — him telling
me that long shorts were for lesbians. It was
true, but it wasn't funny.
Luckily — or unluckily, as it happens — Matt the
Rapist was charitable. He brought me eyeshadows
by Chanel and boxes of unworn shoes from
his own mother's closet. Little reminders that
the ones I already had were mostly cheap
junk.
He made sure to let me know which prom
dresses made me look fat — just watching out
for me so I wouldn't embarrass myself. His
mother redressed me for dinner with the family —
often in something a bit more naked — a little less
religious — than what I'd already had on.
I started getting compliments on my outfits,
which was something that had never happened
before. And by the time he raped me, there
was so little of me left that I had no more
words to tell him what he'd done
wrong.
II.
You're no rapist and I'm sure you wouldn't
appreciate this poem because you're so tired
of living in a world where you're beholden to
other people's trauma. But I won't apologize for
being traumatized or for being weary of you
and your bullshit, or for thinking now about
the way you said offhandedly, when we were
both naked in my shower, that I'd be perfect
if I just had body wash in there.
Or about the way I went to the grocery
store and spent an hour agonizing over which
scent and style would please you and made jokes
to my friends about how it's harder dating girls
than boys, when really it's just hard dating
people who refuse to see me.
I won't apologize for that deer in the
headlights feeling when you said you'd like to
style me because I didn't really care about
fashion, or for being ready to bolt when
I realized you meant it, or for learning from
assholes in my past how to treat the assholes
in my present.
What I want to say to you is fuck yourself, but also
that after time and breath and so much therapy
I've started to feel a little silly about it
myself — what the Matt the Rapist did to me isn't
making me sick or making me crazy.
It's just making me see you.
By Kira Coleman
Biography:
Kira Coleman has a Bachelor's Degree in English and Creative Writing from Fordham University. She believes firmly that if something is both true and important, you have to speak it in the best way that you know how --- which is why she is a poet.
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