Pink Flowers

I had just turned 13. Men started whistling at me on the street. Maybe they had looked at me before, even though I hadn’t noticed. Maybe that’s why our teachers stared down at our shorts disapprovingly, even though that summer was so hot. Maybe that’s when they stopped seeing us as kids, even though I remember trick-or-treating on halloween and playing lego with my best friend.

I had just turned 14. A man followed my friend and I on the street. As we started running she lost her shoe, but we didn’t look back until we got home. Maybe it was the same man whose sons wouldn’t take no for an answer in that shitty club where we had our first drink that summer. Maybe that’s why one of them tried to put his hand up my skirt even though I told him I didn’t want him to.

I had just turned 15. We had heard rumors about a girl getting raped in our quiet suburban neighborhood. As I was about to walk home alone one night, a girl handed me her glass nail-file. She told me that when she had to walk alone, she kept it in her sleeve so she would feel a little safer. Maybe that’s why I had to text her when I got home. Maybe that’s why I walked with my head low and my heart pounding in my chest.

I had just turned 16. A male friend of mine divided girls between those who “dressed like sluts” and those who didn’t. I later found out that he considered me to be one of the former. Maybe that’s why, although he commented on my body a lot, it never felt like a compliment. Maybe that’s why he later told me that if the word got out, I was the one who would have “a terrible reputation”.

I had just turned 17. A guy told me that I was probably “easy”. A couple of months after I rejected him once, it took way too many drunken “no"s and "I don’t want this"s for him to get away from on top of me. I could barely see straight. Maybe that’s why after he stopped trying to take my pants off I didn’t say no as he shoved his dick in my face. Maybe that’s why my closest friends only heard parts of the story.

I had just turned 18. I told my boyfriend about what had happened the year before. He didn’t believe me and asked why I didn’t fight back. Maybe that’s why it took me a year to tell somebody else, even though I felt like I was ready to share it. Maybe that’s why I fled every event that that guy attended, even though it wasn’t my fault.

I had just turned 19. I found out that although he had abused his girlfriend for more than a year, university officials liked him. Maybe that’s why they talked about investigations and procedures, even though she told her story. Maybe that’s why they told me that mine wasn’t serious, even though it felt like the world was crumbling down.