I was fourteen years old when I was sexually assaulted. Although, I would not have the language to describe what happened to me until I was almost finished high school. Since then, I’ve learned about a myriad of psychological, sociological, and legal explanations for what I experienced, how it felt, and how it still feels. It seems strange that learning about sexual violence under these frameworks can feel so distant and foreign to me. When I read sexual violence policy, it doesn’t feel like what happened to me at all. In there, the language is cold, and the syntax is elaborate and flush with jargon. But in my nervous system, where the violence is most intimately remembered, the language is simple and small. Mostly, it’s about being frozen. When policymakers describe sexual violence, it’s clinical and exact. When I recall my experience, it comes in hiccupping bouts, fractured into a million tiny pieces. There are some pieces that have cemented themselves in my memory - the daisies I saw growing through the sidewalk while I walked home, the parts of me he touched, his erection pressing into my leg, being frozen like a scared animal. But, there are also parts of that night I can’t remember at all, or be sure I’m remembering as they happened. These are the things I reflected on while I drew this piece.