This is my first poem to be published to a literary magazine. TW for graphic SA.
To Kill a Girl
If I said I wanted to push my thumbs in
the corners of your eyes
they’d ask for my repentance
as if you’re not the one on top of me
as if this body is not a prison cell
or a blow-up doll.
Even though you’ve done this
to me more times than I
have fingers and toes
wanting to bite your tongue
makes me evil.
Maybe I am evil
maybe I do want to hurt you
maybe I want to steal her back.
Maybe I wanted the 14-year-old to try
and fight, resist, push, scream, bite, claw.
Maybe I didn’t want her to watch
the beach on the car ceiling.
Maybe I wanted her to kill you back.
Maybe I want my body
to forget your filthy fingers.
I hope my words kill you.
I wanted to provide a commentary and explain my process of making the poem and what discussions are neatly bundled within it. At the most basic level, the poem is about the idea of violently reclaiming my power, accessorized by societal systems that condemn such an idea. I reference people such as evangelists who’ve told me things like that defending myself is sinful or that the devil was to blame instead of my abuser (though perhaps it’s not surprising coming from the religion with a CSA problem). The first few lines really focus on those who seem to support the idea that fighting back makes the situation my fault, despite the major lack of consideration to the context.
I entertain an alternate ending to the assaults in which I’m not petrified and instead defend myself by any means necessary. I play with the idea of being branded “evil” for wanting to fight back mercilessly, and suggest that if reclaiming my body makes me evil, then I am evil as hell.
It was interesting to retrospectively notice how the dissociation inadvertently appeared in this poem through separating myself from “the 14-year-old girl”. Because of the trauma, I do not have a continuous sense of self, and I feel like the only thing I have in common with the person I was when I was 14 is the body. It makes more sense to me to refer to my 14-year-old self as “her” because it distinguishes the person I was and the person I am now. That kind of dissociation also adds insight and perspective into the situation, because I feel like it’s one thing for abuse to happen to me (I can deal with that), and it’s another for abuse to happen to a 14-year-old girl (horrible), when really I was no different. I feel a renewed sense of grief over my innocence. But also it comes with a boiling, vengeful rage, that I’ve channeled into this poem. I sometimes wish I could travel back in time and encourage her to “resist, push, scream, bite, claw.”
The “beach on the car ceiling” was intended to portray dissociation into a happy place, a vacation in the middle of chaos. The truth is that, for a time, I tried telling myself that it actually happened this way, that I did imagine being at the beach. But I didn’t. I actually don’t remember what I did, because dissociation is a comatose. I’ve found that my brain sometimes tries to change minor details to make the trauma seem more pleasant somehow. A lot of the trauma is even recalled in the third person, meaning I see myself from an onlooker’s perspective, even in situations when no one else was there. Dissociation and depersonalization.
A few of my line breaks intentionally change the meaning of the sentences they’re a part of. “Maybe I want my body to forget your filthy fingers” is straightforward, but “maybe I want my body” and “to forget your filthy fingers” take on unique individual meanings. I point back to the notion that defending myself is sinful by saying “Maybe I want my body” as if it is too much to ask, and respectively, it’s been an arduous journey “to forget your filthy fingers.”
While no girl was actually killed, the deep psychological, emotional, and spiritual damage has killed my innocence. So while I don’t literally wish to kill him back, I wish he would comprehend the gravity of the harm he caused, because I will never be the same.
