“Grab them by the pussy.”
“When you’re a star they let you do it.”
“You can do anything.”
These ideas are not an anomaly,
Like so many would love to believe.
But, I am living proof.
Living proof that Trump’s tiny hands
Are not the only ones who have coveted
What does not belong to them.
There is proof in my hair at fifteen years old.
When my ex-boyfriend ran his fingers through it,
Ripping me from my roots,
As he forced himself into my mouth.
Proof on my bruised sixteen-year-old shoulders.
When a new friend held me down,
Leaving me a wilting flower,
After hearing no more times than I can remember.
Proof on my chest at seventeen years old.
Sitting on the school bus frozen in fear
As he fondled me.
Plucking my petals for the last time.
Scarring me so bad, I still feel him
Even when I’m all alone.
I have had unwelcome hands lay claim to my body
Since the day I was born;
Like they were farmers
And I was their crop.
Planting seeds where they don’t belong.
Forever changing the soil.
A land that never belonged to them.
But here’s the thing.
I am not a fucking piece of land.
I am a woman.
You are not Columbus.
And I am not your conquest.
Grab me by the pussy
And I will grab you by the balls.