there is a parking lot where we used to make out regularly, i liked the way you talked about music that i had never heard of, i liked that you treated me like a child. you always tasted like beer or coffee, with a slight hint of tar. we didn’t talk about scars, or our fathers, dirty knees, or new haven harbor. we didn’t talk much. i was too intent on listening to the sounds of our own mouths, or the breeders bleeding through my broken computer speakers. 

be a man. 

you said as you sat on top of my thighs; undoing my belt with one hand and your other palm pressed deep into my chest. i liked the way you made me feel intimate, i liked the way you ripened my insecurities. we didn’t talk much, but i told you i wasn’t ready. we didn’t talk much, but you told me you wanted this.  maybe you mistook my company for emptiness. maybe you mistook my no for yes. 

be a man. 

my brothers said as i confided in them. “so what? it’s just sex”. it looks like you enjoyed it from the marks on your face and bruises on your neck. i liked my friends, i liked how they convinced me that i must have said yes, because my dick was hard i must have given consent. i liked how i started to feel, it was just sex. right?

be a man.

she says years later when i confront her about it. i don’t like the way i feel anymore. i don’t like the way i feel when i see her at shows, or the way i feel when i hear true affection by the blow. i don’t like the way it feels to be alone. i don’t want to be a called a man when i am vulnerable, i don’t want to be forced into a position of power, the same way the world around me has positioned my words as a resounding yes, when i clearly screamed no.

be a man. 
just be a man.

there is a parking lot where we used to make out regularly, i liked the way you talked about music that i had never heard of, i liked that you treated me like a child. you always tasted like beer or coffee, with a slight hint of tar. we didn’t talk about scars, or our fathers, dirty knees, or new haven harbor. we didn’t talk much. i was too intent on listening to the sounds of our own mouths, or the breeders bleeding through my broken computer speakers.

be a man.

you said as you sat on top of my thighs; undoing my belt with one hand and your other palm pressed deep into my chest. i liked the way you made me feel intimate, i liked the way you ripened my insecurities. we didn’t talk much, but i told you i wasn’t ready. we didn’t talk much, but you told me you wanted this. maybe you mistook my company for emptiness. maybe you mistook my no for yes.

be a man.

my brothers said as i confided in them. “so what? it’s just sex”. it looks like you enjoyed it from the marks on your face and bruises on your neck. i liked my friends, i liked how they convinced me that i must have said yes, because my dick was hard i must have given consent. i liked how i started to feel, it was just sex. right?

be a man.

she says years later when i confront her about it. i don’t like the way i feel anymore. i don’t like the way i feel when i see her at shows, or the way i feel when i hear true affection by the blow. i don’t like the way it feels to be alone. i don’t want to be a called a man when i am vulnerable, i don’t want to be forced into a position of power, the same way the world around me has positioned my words as a resounding yes, when i clearly screamed no.

be a man.
just be a man.

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    Oh. My. God.
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    i know you dont know me but i am truly sorry you had to go through that. I never believed men could get raped by women...
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