Warning: The content of this poem is a retelling of part of my personal #MeToo history. For MATURE audiences and may contain material unsuitable for readers under 18.

The ruining corridors of pain…
These hallowed halls of entropy…
What learning ‘pon the blackboard
With vile tutelage in your halls?
Delinquent roving gangs violate your corners.
The squalid gasconade tumbling around me…
Filling my ears… coloring my fears… bleeding my soul…
Head down, closed arms ‘cross my books…

Walking… oh, please… don’t notice me…

I won’t! I won’t play your game!
I won’t be part of your juvenile throng!
So now you want to punish me.
Think, together, you’ll teach me to belong.
You’re all trying to take me…
Wanting to penetrate my body…
Break me… thrust beyond… below…
Trying to penetrate my soul…

Walking … Oh GOD! … don’t touch me!

I’ll scream! I won’t go down without a fight!
Your sweating, eager, hating, hungry, frightened faces…
“Shit! Shut up, puta!” JAB! “I’ll shut ‘er up!”
Dragging… wrangling… away from sunlit causeways…
Wretched, sniggering, giggle, snorting, wormy faces…
Ripping… snagging… dragging… grabbing…
JAB! STAB! “Shut her up!” I’ll keep screaming!
Oh GOD! This can’t be happening!

I’ll scream! I won’t go down without a fight!

Praying… screaming with raw throated sobs!
Slam and bang! Bright light so blinding…
Blessed sudden release… they let go… FLEE!
Curled around myself, scrabbling away from horror…
Someone’s still screaming…OH! It’s not me
Look up to see bodies wrecked and tumbling…
‘Fore th’angry, backlit silhouette of retribution…
Falling before my Avenging Angel!

I’m safe. But who has been my angel?

© 07 September 2014, by D. Denise Dianaty

The attack happened in the eighth grade. In the office, the male guidance counselor, a male teacher, the male vice principal, and the male school cop sat in a room with me. After telling me that the boys were all already in juvy, the “grownups in the room” took turns explaining what might happen if I pressed charges. My parents would have to be called. I would have to tell everything… all the terrifying and humiliating details in an open courtroom, over and over and over again because each boy would probably have a separate trial. And, because they were already in juvenile detention until they aged out at eighteen, they might be tried as adults. Then the “young boys” could end up in prison with adult men who would do horrible things to them. I remember… I’m not sure if it was calculated — but, the adults in that room kept calling my attackers “boys” and “children” and “young boys” — it seemed really important… paramount to understand that I might be sending “children” into the hands of monsters in prison. And, I’d have to do it over and over again… I’d have to look my attackers in the eye in court and condemn children to horrors.”