This poem was inspired by the #metoo movement on social media. It was originally published on Facebook.
Maybe if all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote “Me too” as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem.
Please copy paste.
Click. Scroll. Gone.
But it’s not that easy, is it? Was it?
Maybe IF ALL the women [women?] [women] [daughters] [sisters] [brothers] [sons] PEOPLE who…
Who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote “Me too” as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem.
What’s on your mind?
The cursor waits, reminding me of its impatience with every Flick. Flick. Flick.
What’s on my mind? What’s on my mind?
Well, Facebook, read between the lines of my face, I’ll tell you what’s on my mind. Me too.
Put those words after your hashtag [number sign]; Now you’re just another number that signs to the problem.
The problem with a culture that looks at a woman and worships her.ass.ment.
But I digress.
Did you ever look up at your daddy and wonder why he couldn’t stand to be around you without a beer in his hand?
Did you ever wonder if maybe the stuff between your legs matched his and you liked football then you’d be worthy of his attention?
Did you think it was weird when your momma told you that when the boys chased you around and called you names, it meant they liked you?
It doesn’t make sense.
But what doesn’t make sense makes dollars. And they’re selling it to us like slaves!
Did you believe your momma when she told you boys only want one thing?
That’s all you’re worth.
Did you think it was weird he touched you there in the dark like it was a game?
But you’re my cousin? I don’t understand.
Did you ever look in the mirror and hate what you saw because it didn’t look like Britney?
Oops, she did it again.
Augmented reality reflected through smoke and mirrors. Reflection. Deception.
Television channels the lies through the eyes…
Screens, now handheld (when we’re just longing for our hands to be held)
Stream, Live (when we’re just dead inside) – standing in our graves –
Slaves, staring at our screens – just longing to be seen.
And then you said yes.
I mean you’re old enough. Right?
And it feels good. Right?
At least it’s supposed to. Right?
At least it’s over now. Right?
He loves you. Right?
And you were safe. Right?
As if a piece of rubber or a pill can protect your heart when you find those videos on his phone of those girls [women] [sisters] [daughters] [mothers] who don’t look like you doing things you don’t do. Won’t do?
But maybe you should? Because maybe then you’ll be good enough.
But it isn’t good enough. Because he’s traded the truth for the lie. Submerged in perversion. And you’re no better.
Clinging to the bible of Beyonce. I could have another you in a minute.
So you do. And another. And another. And another.
Daughters. Sisters. Mothers.
And then you said no. But he asks again. No.
Let – Regret.
See, I couldn’t just post and leave, like most.
No, I had to share – get bare. To the truth –
the root – like those grays in your hair,
that, though you try to hide [dye],
come back and stare you in the eye
as a reminder that one day you will die. And this is the magnitude of the problem.
Harassment and assault are the fruit of what this culture breeds.
Healing and deliverance are what this culture desperately needs.
You We are worthy. Me too.