Peregrine

I wrote a poem in the style of spoken word about my experience as a woman. When I wrote it, I was angry and frustrated.

The vision was to get up on stage and speak my truth into the microphone. But now I’m second guessing myself. Is it any good? Would people even care? Would I get booed off stage by the men who feel attacked by my words?

Maybe you would be interested. I wrote it, might as well share it.

Below is the poem I wrote. let me know what you think.

Title: I will always choose the bear By (Me)

Every woman knows there are worse things than dying. We would all choose the bear. Because at least the bear doesn’t cum on dead bodies.

I was ten years old when the nightmares started. Raggedy men chased me through a suburb that was supposed to be safe. Beer and cigarettes and dirty boots — and of course, because it was a dream, no one was ever home. The doors were locked and they chased me. They caught me. They tried to defile me. I dreamt of the heaviness of his torso. I dreamt of trying to hold my knees together like that was something a little girl could possibly do.

By twelve the shame had followed me out of my dreams and into the real world. I tied a sweatshirt around my waist — at school, at the mall, at the playground, even over my shorts in the summer. I told myself it was fashion. I told myself it was cool. But my stomach knotted. My shoulders braced. A body learning to expect something it couldn’t yet name.

For many of us the violence was real. Not from strangers — from the people our protectors trusted. The ones already at the dinner table. Already in the family photos. Who knew our routines because they were part of them. Father and brother. Uncle and cousin. Mother’s boyfriend, grandpa. Stepfather. And sometimes our babysitter. And sometimes our teacher. And sometimes our mother.

I know this list. I’ve lived this list. At ten, the nightmares. At twelve, the sweatshirt. At fifteen — my classmates were whispering about sex like it was something to discover. I had been dreaming about it almost every night for 5 long years. Not like that. Never like that. By then the nightmares felt normal. Still awful. Still horrific. But normal. I had adjusted. I did not imagine my adult life. I only imagined this — the inevitable. My body was the product. My virginity could be sold to the highest bidder. I knew this the way I knew everything — without knowing how I knew. Without being able to name the source. If men look at me like meat, then I am something to be bought. And cruelly enjoyed. So I did the math. If I am a product, then I can be damaged. If I am damaged, I cannot be sold. If I cannot be sold, it makes no business sense to keep me alive. I wanted to look normal with clothes on. I only wanted to be disfigured where it mattered. When undressed to be raped. So I took apart my father’s razor. And I made myself defective.

At sixteen I had a penpal. He was older. A philanthropist. A nonprofit organizer. Someone doing good in the world. He didn’t choose me. He targeted me. And my depression had already done most of his work for him. I thought this was affection. I thought his texts were flirty, not manipulation. I thought his request for photos showed genuine interest, not perversion. I had been scared of predators my entire life and I didn’t even know I had been caught in one’s trap.

And then I was seventeen. He was in his late thirties. I thought I consented. I thought I was ready. I thought this time would be different from the nightmares. And then, in the middle of the act, I disappeared. My mind went somewhere without me. And when it came back — violently, suddenly — I was still in it. My body remembered before my mind did. Ten years of nightmares landing in a single moment. The tears and sobs came without permission. My chest heaved and my hands shook and I couldn’t tell the difference between the dream and the room I was in. He didn’t stop because I asked. He stopped because my snot dripped onto his stomach. I disgusted him so much I was discarded. He pushed me off to wash himself. I curled into a ball on the floor and tried to remember how to breathe. I didn’t know it was rape. Not yet. Not for years.

And still. Chad and Drew and Jacob and Michael and David tell me I’m overreacting. They share the memes. They laugh at the bear. They do nothing while their friends slip something into a drink. They do nothing while grown men slide into the DMs of literal children. And they listen to the podcasts that tell them we are commodities. Resources. Something to be enjoyed and discarded. I have seen the videos. Women’s bodies. Raped post mortem. Your body is a weapon. It has always been a weapon. I have known this since I was ten years old. I will always choose the bear. Because at least the bear doesn’t cum on dead bodies.