santos scribes

I sit alone off the Southern Coast of Rhode Island, anchored  

to nothingness, the ever-moving Atlantic is restless and 

keeping watch of too many silent exiles to count 

I am a tiny speck of land; an afterthought of sandy blonde  

beaches rising to meet each Kelly-greened bluff  

giving way to that great gray puddle of sea water all around me   

I am the sun-bleached buildings, weather worn and teaked, sitting  

too close to the road and to one another 

I am the rain and weather scorched roads; where corners  

are taken fast and red stop signs slowly rolled through   

I am an entire piece of land and all that occupies it  

steeping together and recklessly strewn into thick salty skies  

at times, I am so mesmerized I fixate solely on the disembodied  

beauty of my remote distance

it is easy to forget who I am  

easy to forget where I come from  

what I’ve come through   

here, I am the part of me which belies this type of transgression-  

the part of me which will not allow something like this to happen  

not because I haven’t been transgressed, but because I have  

at 23, I would see it coming now  

and yet, I don’t. 

like others he is my friend, a beau 

we flirt and share easy smiles, looks that linger just outside our friendship  

people think there might be something between us, I think so too 

for two summers he is someone I know and like

but on this night under a nameless June moon,  

he is something, someone else entirely. 

forced and fumbling, he takes from me  

that which I did not desire to give him 

that which I did not want nor wish him to have

this piece, that way 

like the monsters before, he does not listen when I tell him stop 

does not notice I have left my body in search of my soul 

this time when it’s over, I make my own misnomer  

I try telling someone what he’s done 

she is a new acquaintance-

(up from New York City for the summer to nanny one young boy) 

she only smiles from across the outdoor bar;

pretends she can’t hear me either. 

I take back to the water then 

swim, float, sink to the bottomless  

black of my oceanic floor 

motionless and moored, hidden in plain sight of everything 

never having noticed the screeching whips of the wind above  

never having noticed how they disturb and unsettle everything 

and how no one pays a particular attention to any of it   

_{and a rock feels no pain.  and an island never cries.}  

_{(Simon & Garfunkel ‘66)}  

about this piece of writing

Recently, while reading “Missoula: rape and the justice system in a college town” written by Jon Krakauer (2015) I learned that “at least 80% of those who are (sexually) assaulted don’t report the crime to authorities.” This writing is my official receipt of a crime whose only true authority is me. Its public release frees me up to no longer be a statue of limitations.
If you’re reading this there is a strong chance you have experienced something similar to what I did all those years ago now and an even better chance you, like me, didn’t tell anyone who could actually help you about what happened- for this, I am deeply sorry. You did not deserve the disturbing things that happened to you. In writing these words, it is my sincere hope all people who experience sexual assault are able to find way(s) to unburden themselves of crimes they did not commit. thank you for being here & for reading my work, xo, S.