It has been seven years and I still do not know if there is healing here
some days I am a victim, others a survivor. there are world wars between those words
there are still days when I cannot get out of bed because I feel all of his weight on top of me
he remembers the title of my favorite book and finds that reason enough to dismiss the idea that he assaulted me
I find myself realizing and remembering more and more of my interactions with men have been turned into trauma
I do not feel like an inspiration. I do not feel like I survived.
Surviving is not always poetic. Surviving does not always sound like a roar. Surviving does not always have bared teeth and a raised fist. Surviving is not always strength. Surviving does not always have a voice. Sometimes, surviving is sleeping all day because you saw him and want to start over tomorrow. Sometimes, surviving is crying is class because you cannot afford any more skips. Sometimes, surviving is going hungry because you do not want to see him in passing.
Sometimes, surviving is just surviving, because that’s all you can do.