When he put his hand in mine,
I didn’t flinch.
I was the shy yellow girl
in glasses,
mystified that a boy
three years older
showed interest in me.
His rough tongue
chafed my neck,
fumbling fingers
unbuttoned my pants;
I should’ve screamed.
A few weeks later,
he asked me out –
didn’t that prove
he was a good guy?
Like Dr. Ford, I had
no corroborating evidence;
he was a well-liked
rich white boy –
So who the hell
would’ve believed me?
When my jeans
were too tight,
my father called
me a whore;
When my uncle
came over,
my mother insisted
I wear a bra;
So how was I
supposed to know
It wasn’t my fault?