The Unrepresentable: Art & Sexual Violence

noelani
daniel-gomes
I wrote poem after a friend breached a definite
line with me. It was while I was alone with him in a
city hours away from home. It had never happened
before, and I was stunned. It came up again later, and
he laughed, saying we were both drunk—when I was
not. Although he does not know my feelings about that
night even now, the poem was a balm for my troubled
mind. He has since moved on, but I will always carry
a part of that girl who hid in the red-colored bathroom
and cried.
Quiet
We must be quiet in this place.
These catacombs of rights and powers
strip supposed Amazons of strength—
inspire suffering
in spite of suffrage.
The quiet isn’t revenge.
It isn’t consent.
This quiet is not folly, lunacy, or hysteria.
It is not inebriation.
Not drunk on lack of touch, of yielding to strong hands.
It is fear.
Unthinking arms, a cage
with metal walls that my voice dies within,
in a breathless, hitching way—
but it is no compliment to you.
Trust is a dangerous commodity,
with so much counterfeit and debt.
In pain, I took your hand, seeking help—
bankrupting myself—
and still you collected interest.
Your hands wandered, like a miser over treasure—
a drugstore statue-turned-idol
with the help of liquor.
This tipple-touch is poisonous,
lingering for months like a cancer in my throat
that grows when I’m forced to smile—
to play at normalcy with you.
We ignore the sore between us—
this Cold War tête-à-tête, all friction and no feeling.
You laugh when you remember, and I laugh, too.
I have to.
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We must be quiet in this place.
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