my life has been flashing before my eyes recently

slowly, in bursts, over time

is this the start of an end?

clips, vague in narrative but jarring in emotion like moving paintings

there is no anchor here what rustles them?

like an inexplicable pain in the lung, catches quickly and then passes before you can consider it

quietly stunning.

a path from my backyard down the hill to a park. it splits in two but both lead the same way

both littered with knotted roots, both dangerous, both a problem to be solved.

a glance back towards the house, through the trees, blue and white and difficult

When I was young, I loved everyone in the room

    arms wrapped around boney shoulders     fingers tangled in soft ponytails

My heart was so full it poured out my eyes.

You saw it flowing down my cheeks and you asked for it all and I gave it to you.

you said: This is how you love.

Almost everyone has heard of the Stanford rape case. Almost everyone has Brock’s doofy-ass man-child mug splattered across their newsfeed. Hopefully many of you have read the victim’s open letter, as well as Brock’s father’s note to the judge. Neither of these are easy reads (for VERY different reasons) but both are important. The juxtaposition of perspective is key here, and I don’t think we’re focusing on it enough.

Before I really get in to this, please note: Brock did a fucking terrible thing.  A life ruining thing. A thing that no one will ever be able to fix. He deserves to be in jail for a very, very long time. He is not a good person. 

As a survivor of sexual assault, this point is very important to me. I know what it’s like to come out of a situation like this, confused and hurt and stalled, only to find that my rapist was folded right back into society in the blink of an eye. I understand the burning and want to ruin his life. I used to have dreams where I painted his name in big red letters all over the school walls, declaring him a rapist (only to be promptly brought to detention).

I learned something though. Over time all that hurt was no longer represented by him. Instead I felt it every time my guy friends talked shit about the girls they were hooking up with. I felt it later, as a high school teacher, when an 18 year-old male student of mine asked me what consent was. I felt it watching a little boy at the park smack his sister over and over until she cried. I felt it even more when the people sitting next to me gasped but then said “boys are a handful” and continued their conversation. I’ve felt it in restaurants, on the sidewalks of NYC, in job interviews. Hell, I’ve even felt it within my own family. This pain is bigger than one human. It surrounds me (and you) every single day.

Let me be real-- I could give a shit about Brock past the basic description of ‘strong white male ivy-league athlete’. That’s all I need to paint this fucked up picture. You know why? Because this happens every single goddamnd day. We hear it on the news, from friends, colleagues. We’ve all been touched by it somehow. Sexual assault is alive and well in 2016, as is unchecked privilege.

I’m tired of seeing his deer-in-the-headlights expression over and over again. And really, honestly, I’m tired of hearing people focus their energies on condemning him to wildly creative, hellish scenarios. Does he deserve these things? Sure. But I don’t give a shit either way. We need to zoom out. 

Focusing in on him as this source of evil is narrow, and truly takes away from the horror of the entire picture. It’s saying “he is what is wrong, and once he gets what’s coming to him, things will be less wrong.” It dismisses the weight of the system, takes responsibility off of the rest of us, allows us to sleep at night. 

We all know better. We know we currently live in a time that breeds Brocks. The entitlement alone is an issue. Entitlement mixed with unchecked sexism and violence is where things get dangerous. The judge, Brock’s father and mother, his coaches, his teachers growing up, his role models -- these people need to be in question right along with him. Sure, he could’ve been a bad egg. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s fucked up for a convicted rapist to get off essentially scot-free. That part is not Brock’s fault. That part is much bigger than him, and bigger than the case itself.

I strut home, deflating with each beat on the sidewalk To lick wounds                a side effect of               intimacy given without regard 

In the absence I nurse myself  Treat the lack with blankets                 silence                broth & sunlight                soft pillows and something to do with my hands I take your place

So you can’t be implicated                the next time I inflate myself for you                         for me 

So by the end I’m not a paper doll Stuck with limbs pins and needles       paralyzed by your sure hand                vague tongue & leading eyes

Lying in bed Nose pressed Against my window screen I inhale the musty metallic smell That sits on my tongue, And look out on to The empty street.

The wet pavement holds Pools of orange light From lamps above, And from my phone your voice hums Heavy like a river stone.

I hear a car coming From far off down the road And I tell you, That we are not as alone as it seems. You bet me that the next car will be blue, You tell me to wait and see.

And as the white car passes by I gasp, and hear you smirk.

A sweet silence takes over As we wait for you to see the future. Each time a car whistles past, I sit in shock Though my eyes are tightly shut, Because it’s more powerful if we both believe That you are always right.

My toes touch and intertwine, reminds me Of the times I can’t remember. The floor is hard, cold, painted grey Substantial and heavenly, Colors the room lavender when The morning light leaks in. Reminiscent of Homer’s dreams, Zeus on a chair in the clouds, Athena at his feet Considering Odysseus’ fate At the whim of their eternal knowledge, And mortal desires.

She sits On the stool Legs crossed like a lady Her hair weaved into a messy braid That begs to come undone. 

She gazes into her glass Watching the bubbles rise To the top And float before they Escape.

  Men Find themselves by her side Brandishing their drinks And speaking candidly.

 She does not look Away from her drink Where she watches Time pass.