Only A Kid

My brain shuts down during situations of distress. 

As a six-year-old girl, I’m known to forget.

Forgetting is good, forgetting is the best.

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I can hardly remember what color the paint on the walls were.

I can’t remember if it was dark or light,

If it was day or night, 

Or where anyone else was on site, 

For I knew I was the only one in the room at the time.

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I was sexually assaulted.

Like many others, I know.

We sit still as women, like a pretty little bow.

Sitting still for society as they all know,

At least one of us in this room was touched in ways others would never know. 

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Would they know that every time I think back the only thing I can remember is the feeling,

That’s how I know I was assaulted, 

Not because I forgot, but because I remember without the details. 

The disgusting shiver of the gross touch,

The one I didn’t ask for, 

The one I didn’t want.

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But for most men, not all,

What matters is our bust, 

Not if we were touched, but what it would be like to touch.

How it looks in our shirts, no matter how loose or baggy.

And apparently, no matter how flat or big, 

Because I was only a kid.

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Even with beauty standards nowadays,

You can ask the people who are far away. 

I speak for the people who are silenced and who don’t have the chances.

People who have different stories, yet such similar circumstances.

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Traumatic situations can lead us to forget,

But at what rate is the cost when you have to protest. 

When you have to say what happened to you, but can’t remember the bits, 

It’s not my fault, I was only a kid.