"If only I were younger, I'd knock you over the head and take you home with me"

(TW: Harassment, Assault)

You're right. You're not like the rest of them.

I know you are not the boys who whistled and cheered for my thirteen-year-old body.

You are not my sixth grade math teacher who stroked little girls hair, and you are absolutely not the teacher who declared,

"If only I were younger, I'd knock you over the head and take you home with me."

My mind knows that you are not the boy who gripped my shoulders and shook me until I sobbed or the stranger who screamed in my face.

My logic tells me you are not the man who followed me home in the rain or the lover who wouldn't let me off the shower wall.

You are not the man outside my apartment waiting to glance up my skirt.

You are not the boys who violated my friends. My family.

You are not my father who slammed doors and ripped cabinets off hinges.

You didn't shove my head down. You didn't sit on me on the Subway. You didn't kick my shins. You didn't throw a glass bottle at me.

You are not the reason I have hardened my heart

that I judge first and seek to understand seventh.

How do I make you understand

that it takes effort to fight my instincts

that I repeat what you are not

Over and over

Like a prayer

or a numbing song

that lessens the panic in my stomach.

It might sound paranoid

that I repeat the chorus again,

but I can't stop

because someone keeps making up the next fucking verse.