It's Not My Fault

I remember sitting in the back of my fifth grade classroom, Learning about the Battle of Antietam, "It was the worst of times, it was the bloodiest of times", my teacher boomed, Over my suddenly at war insides, And suddenly noting the small drops of blood leak from my school skirt, I realized I'd become a woman, And hurrying up the aisles of youthful innocence, I heard laughter and whispers, jabbing at me worse than my innards, When I asked the teacher to use the restroom and was denied, "Now, look what you've done," they exclaimed as a silence fell over the room But it wasn't my fault, it wasn't my idea It wasn't my time Fast forward a few years and there I am, That girl in the black leather jacket looking coy, I had waited for that night and felt like the prettiest girl in the room, I felt invincible as my glance caught yours across the room, And a slight smile sent me flying, It wasn't until later that I found out, What a horrible mistake I made, And I should have known better, as we made our way out into the middle of a vacant field, You and I were there, but not for the reasons I thought WIth one swift push and punch there I lay, Arms pinned to the ground, screaming for hope, Crying away all of the effort I put into this night, Transforming from the prettiest girl to the ugliest, Because of one simple act, I was destroyed, I lie in the field as my assaulter whispers threats in my ear, But I am too far gone, too numb and lost to understand, He wipes himself off as I slowly rise, Looking at the mess he created, the evidence on the ground Weeks later I find myself in a sterile, brightly lit room, I finish the paperwork and hand it to the nurse conveniently shielded behind a slate of glass, As though they needed to keep out the animals, or rather, clients, their office assisted, She gave me this look, such a look of disdain, But how could she possibly know, or even understand? Another woman leads me into an even brighter room where I lay on the table, just as I lied on that ground, Heart pounding equally as fast and face equally as pale, The pain had returned, The bother of being a woman, The hurt in dealing with such incidences of inconvenience, The betrayal of mother nature against a young, innocent girl in middle school, Who now writhes in pain screaming, "It's not my fault!" But it's not my fault! Yet no one could reconcile, The overall and overbearing message that it was not my fault