It Happens

It happened.

with fifteen people- coworkers, friends- around and a bonfire blazing nearby in the backyard.

It happened.

and I was wearing jeans and a black hoodie and chunky, black boots.

in the dead of night, in the dark of his passed-out drunkenly sleeping house with one hand over my mouth.

and I was forced to his bed and the strings of my hoodie kept getting tangled in my hair

while I punched him in the chest and he held me down.

It happened.

and I told him I didn’t want to

and I was too intoxicated, confused, scared, weak on my back, telling-no, begging- stop.

It happened.

and it was my fault or so they would have said had I pressed charges.

and I feel like I can’t breathe because the shock still bubbles up in my throat from time to time,

choking me and leaving me breathless and paralyzed,

and the tears still pour down like hot rain every now and then.

It happened.

and it didn’t matter that I told him to stop and repeated, “No…Please, no…NO!” dozens of time.

and he told me that he was drunk and I was drunk

so it didn’t count.

It happened

and I became a shadow of myself, retreating from reality, avoiding the memory.

It happened.

and it could happen again.

and I will sit in the shower and cry and scrub myself until I’m raw and hate every inch of my body

because it’s happened once already now and I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,

or what I did to make it happen, and what if I do something to make it happen again?

It happened.

but I survived.

and I’ll wear this memory like a battle scar.

and everyone will laugh and say it’s my fault simply because

It happened.

–Annie Turner

Annie is a writer/poet named after her mother’s favorite book, Anne of Green Gables. She’s obsessed with stargazing, poetry, antiques, & animals, and is always on the lookout for unusual and beautiful words to record in her ever-present notebook. More of Annie’s poetry and writing can be found on her blog. You should follow her on Twitter or email her at aturn139@gmail.com.

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