Their Scripts Poem by Damian Wilkinson

Frequently
I tell my friends funny stories
and they look at me
their expressions ranging from horror,
to confusion,
to sadness.
They look at me and go,
'you know you were raped, right? '

And I'm sitting there confused
like yes, obviously
but how could they think that that is bad?
Why do they think I should be traumatized by a touch?
When I'm fine?
When it's funny?
When I'm not scared?
When I've been through worse

My throat closes,
not in holding back tears
But in holding back my condescension
Stopping myself from screaming at you
'How fragile you all must be,
To cry over something as mundane
As spilt milk

When I was 15
my therapist tried to rewrite my memories
because apparently
a Woman can't hurt a child.
Don't you know how maternal they are?
So apparently
I must be confused,
wrong,
misremembering.
Apparently
my own story doesn't exist
unless it fits their script.

That was the real violation.
not the touches
not their threats
not my terror
but the way everyone else insists
on telling me
what I should feel.
instead of just
Letting it be mine.