I wonder if you know you assaulted me. 
I bet you don’t. 
I didn’t, not for a long time. 

A bad drunken hook up. 
The beginning of my slutty year. 
A right of passage. 
Sexual liberation. 
Freedom. 

The brain is a funny thing. 
It can take something and turn it into nothing. 
It can turn trauma into beginnings. 
Terrible into liberation. 
Force into choice. 

I took my newfound freedom to be a slut and used it to burry you. 
I buried your memory in a sea of drunken hook ups. 
I tried to find power in being desired, just like you had desired me. 
I tried to find joy in my choice, just like I chose that night. 

I chose to hold a handle of Fireball to my lips, until it burned my consciousness away. 
I chose to stumble my way into your waiting arms, ready to guide me to bed. 
I chose to lie on my side, just so the fire I kept breathing wouldn’t burn the breath out of me. 
I chose to stay still while your hands claimed what wasn’t theirs. 
I chose this. 

It took me years to learn that I didn’t chose. 
I wasn’t liberated. 
I wasn’t free. 
I was assaulted. 
You assaulted me. 
I wonder if you know.