You seem like the type that would happen anyway.
I smile politely and listen to him as he went on about how sexy he thought my vulnerability was.
My trauma a commodity, a mere accessory to him.
I am the saint in the stained glass window now.
I wonder if I’m the type when he kept his hands where they were even when I asked him to stop.
The way he mistook my shrinking for permission.
My fingertips were so thin then,
Pale, peeling skin and a wrecking ball in the empty space in my chest.
I wonder if I’m the type when a man I don’t know follows me home,
The way I tried to swallow the problem, to drop my throat into a whisper.
To survive by blending, by not being the victim,
Maybe I had always asked for it.
Maybe this just happened to girls like me.