This Is Not An Apology Letter

he wanted me to want it so he pulled at my hair and screamed “cunt” at me even though that was all he wanted from me. but they told me that my chastity belt would break if I wanted it because my virginity was all I have to offer. Then they said my body wasn’t good enough because I have stretch mark scars that cut through my skin and my breasts don’t point outwards like a neon open sign because I am not your pornstar Barbie doll with hard to crack plastic restraints around my weak wrists and flimsy ankles. My thighs still touch at the top where there are bumps from dull razor blades that were supposed to get rid of the human hair that still grows in spiky stubble on my legs. THIS IS NOT AN APOLOGY LETTER this is a manifesto about how my virginity cracked into pieces that he held through rose colored lenses that let him call it consensual. This is a hate letter and a love song about STDs being the slut’s disease and antibiotics being the chalky white excuses for men like him to say she asked for it. this poem is the short skirt the tight dress that squeezed out the “no” he never wanted to hear the tight dress that let him scratch me black and blue underneath the lining of cotton underwear. this is a list of things I want like a strapless bra that actually supports my breasts because after all, they’re all I’m really worth. I want you to stop calling the tampon aisle the”feminine hygiene aisle” because it makes women sound dirty dirtier than the men who ask for garters first and consent second. and I want their tongues to stop twisting like knives and I want people to stop telling me to settle because settling for love is like settling for dirty air full of gas and the ghost stories they tell to haunt women.