My voice said no, his hands said otherwise

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Content Warning: This poem contains themes of sexual assault, trauma, and self-blame. Please read with care.

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I said “No,” but somehow, it turned into a yes. 
I said, “No,” but his hands still caressed my breast. 
 
I was young.

I was alone.  
All I wanted was to go back home. 
 
He thought it was a joke.

I laughed because I was nervous.  
I kept saying “No,” but I guess I was the only one who heard it. 
 
At this point, we were on the ground, and somehow, my skirt had made it’s way down. 
 
He went inside me, and I just laid their, still. 
There were so many thoughts in my head, I couldn’t believe it was real. 
 
He kept going until he came, and then he finally stopped.  
 
I don’t recall what happened next. 

I just know I felt awful. I grabbed my things and left. 
 
I kept it a secret because I was ashamed.

I denied all the allegations, I thought I was to blame. 
 
Why didn’t I fight harder? 
Why didn’t I run? 
Did I really want it, or was I just dumb? 
 
So many thoughts ran through my head.

I played the scene over and over again. 
 
It never made sense to me and still to this day, the question I struggle with or that still remains is….

Was it rape? 

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Author’s Note
This poem is based on my personal experience as a 13-year-old girl.

It’s taken me years to even begin to find the words. For a long time, I didn’t know how to name what happened. 

I laughed nervously. I froze. I said “no,” but it didn’t matter. I walked away feeling ashamed and confused, convinced it was somehow my fault.

If you’ve ever questioned your own story because you didn’t scream, didn’t fight, or weren’t believed—please know you are not alone.

Consent isn’t silent. Consent isn’t fear. And consent is never something a child can give.

Writing this was part of my healing. Sharing it is part of reclaiming my voice.

If this speaks to you, I see you. And I’m with you.