Section Fuck, Indian Penal Code
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,
The hypocritical hoard of masses
Keen to launch in
For every meaty fight
Relationship
Association
Between a man and a woman.
Trouble is their favourite kind.
Always the first to chew on
Juicy gossip.
The more your life destructs,
The happier they become.
So come, listen to my fable
Maybe you will touch yourself
Hearing of my plight.
Let me tell you stories
Of the men who fucked me
While you watched
In silence.
I am a romantic,
The cliched 3 am poet
Finding muses in broken souls
Feeding of off them
For my art,
Selfishly so.
Oh, I love love.
I love losing myself,
Sensibilities amiss
Until I am knocked out
Senseless, myself.
Ever happened to you?
It’s happened to me.
Oh, I know boys.
Boys of all kinds.
Who mess with your head,
Always the breasts
And painfully,
With your heart.
Let me show you my favourite kind.
The man holding a guitar.
The crazy artist who creates
Symphonies.
Melodies.
Makes you want to press your lips
Against their face
And wrap your legs
Around their waist.
"Guitarists are so good with their fingers."
Sure they are.
He was too,
If only limited
To the rapid movement
Of his plectrum.
He worked his fingers
Tirelessly,
So good on my body
Until my skin camouflaged
With the purple of the sky.
I am brown.
Brown to the ground.
Brown as the dirt
That he kept
Spitting on
Mistaking my face
For the ego
He walked on.
He stretched his fingers.
Coiling around my neck
Choking me,
Until his fingers left a trail,
A little leash
To claim his bitch
As I began to be.
I watched,
As his fingers, beautiful,
Folded tight into a fist
Welcome to the right side
Of my left cheek
Every afternoon
That he needed a stretch.
My face was a warm up exercise.
Count 1,2,3
“Break a nose.”
Count 1,2,3
“Break a toe.”
Count 1,2,3
“Break a spine.”
“Hit her,
Until she can't stand,
Stand to say goodbye.”
His fingers, let's keep at that.
One fine morning,
He decided he was bored,
My face was too disfigured a canvas
To track his progress.
His fingers wanted more.
So, he welcomed my vagina.
My clitoris almost weeped
At his acknowledgement.
Warm white tears
His fingers touched.
I climaxed
With the knot
Of his fingers
Weaving into
My "delicates".
“Handle with care.”
Didn't he know
That he mustn't burn
The tip of my "lady parts"?
Maybe he couldn't hear
All of my screams
In the midst of his fucking me,
That maybe he should stop.
Maybe it hurt.
"It", I say. “It.”
Because my wounds are not his mistake.
It is NEVER the fault of the abuser.
Always the fault of the abused.
“Maybe she liked it?”
“Why did she stay with him?”
“Why didn't she do anything?”
It wasn't my fault.
I loved him.
It wasn't his fault.
He was a man
Expressing his
Sexuality.
His frustration.
So it is "IT"s fault.
Let's blame this “IT”.
IT, you are a monster.
You first arrived
In the shape of my cousin
Who shoved his dick down my throat.
Sorry, his "manliness" down my throat
That was welcomed by a gash
On the side of my throat,
And a puddle of blood
Mixed with semen.
Bloody white is good.
They should make a drink out of it,
A limited edition for rape victims
And the abused like me.
Drink his semen with your blood.
Special offer.
Double delight.
Double pleasure.
Cash not acceptable.
So you pay with your life.
Pay with your peace of mind.
As if constant reminders
Were even needed.
The taste of blood never changes.
Always salty and terrifying.
My four-year-old self told me about it,
How she was pinned down by my cousin.
And the 20-year-old now agrees
As she is pinned down by her lover.
Oh, and there were other men.
The boys who made me give them a blow-job
When I wasn’t in the mood for a fuck.
How DARE you leave them hanging?
The committed souls
Who have pent up excitement
Contorted fantasies
Of MY body.
Let's not forget,
It is always consensual—
The illusion of choice.
The art of refusing.
His friends must have watched
As he squeezed your breasts
Or groped your thigh.
His friends must have heard
The bragging,
About the handjob in the car,
The quick fuck in the basement.
How DARE you say no
When he respects your wishes,
And when he cannot let you go?
And of course, there is the nice boy
Who says he loves you
Until you fuck him.
And he is gone two times faster
Than the time it took you
To make him cum.
Let me tell you MORE stories,
Of a group of men
In a uniform
I once respected.
Policemen, You are hired.
To protect the ward of the state
I beseech you to shield me.
Yet, your testicles
Spoke before
You could.
How uncaring you were
Of the purple blotches
On my brown body.
And yet, your protection
Was so conditional,
On the more important question
That you wanted even my parents to hear.
"Have you fucked him yet?"
Yes, I have fucked him.
1148 times, to be precise.
In countless positions,
At numerous locations—
Apartments.
Basements.
Motels.
Car Seats.
Bathrooms.
Backstages of music concerts.
Behind your very police station once.
Does that help?
Does my sexual history
Satisfy your curiosity
And justify his "masculinity"?
Not yet, no.
Let's move on to more important matters.
Before we go forward to the sentencing
Of the abuser and defendant MR. XXXXX XXXXXX
(Let's protect his privacy, and forget about mine)
We must now discuss the more prominent issue
Of the woman in question,
The abusee,
The plaintiff.
"What did you do that made him hit you?"
"Did you cheat?"
"Did you fuck his best friend?"
Victim shaming.
Victim blaming.
Of course, it is more essential
That the body of the woman
Comes in question.
Her virtue has already been cancelled out
By the act of her fucking
The very man who beat her senseless.
And the verdict is out.
The abuser is hereby absolved
Of any guilt of abuse,
And threat to bodily harm
Of said plaintiff
And any future cases
Will be null and void
Against the said defendant
On the virtue of his masculinity.
The penis
Must always be worshipped.
The plaintiff is hereby sentenced
To a lifetime of ridicule
For being a pathetic woman,
And staying
With the man who beat her
And a man she supposedly loves.
And thus pronounced,
Is the decision of the jury
That cannot be questioned
For society is always right,
And old laws must never be altered.
The END.
Talk To Us. Tell us your story or help bring the stories of disempowered survivors to a community that cares. We promise to keep every word 100% private and confidential, unless you explicitly wish to share your story with the world. You can also reach us at contact@whyindianmenrape.com.
