iii. letters i should never write: steven the rapist.

i could start this by calling you a disgusting, pathetic little piece of shit.
but even that says too much yet means too little.

your mom should have miscarried you.
you are a mistake to the world.
you are a clerical error of the universe.
not even a real person.
just walking, breathing fecal matter stuffed into unironic nerd glasses.
a creepy short-ass loser that has friends that are girls;
because it’s too hard to get someone to fuck you that wants to.

you’re the reason women are confused about what rape is.
because honestly you look like a pussy.
that’s the only reason i even let my guard down.
but you’re the reason i learned that being nice to men—
makes them think you want to fuck them.
makes them think they deserve to fuck you.

you hovering little hobbit bitch.
orbiting.
lurking.
watching me date literally…anyone else.
but that didn’t matter to you.

you swear we made out once.
good for you.
hold onto that.
you’re going to need something to fantasize about when you rot in whatever basement you still live in.

what i remember is christmas night.

i remember being blackout drunk.
i remember asking my brother to drive me home.
and i remember you —
jumping in like the little peasant-bitch you are
like you were owed something for creeping in the background all those years.

you said,

"nah, i got you—let me"

yeah.
you "got me."

you got me passed out.
you got me half-conscious and unable to say no.
you got me bleeding out and terrified the next morning.

you got me a tampon jammed so far inside me it felt like it was trying to butcher me from the inside out.

congratulations, you fucking loser.
imagine having to move like that to get someone to fuck you?

i told my brother when i woke up.
the first person i saw.
i told him with that tampon still lost inside me.
and he looked me in the face and said,

"are you telling me you got date raped?"
(disgusted)
and walked away.

he’s the reason i didn’t go to the hospital that day.
i was too scared.
because nobody fucking cares.

ten years later i walked into the police station anyway.

they made me find your number.
they made me call you.
they made me speak to you.

and you didn't even deny it.
you fucking agreed.
you fucking admitted it.

you said:

"yeah... it didn’t feel right."
"yeah... i knew how drunk you were."

sober enough to drive an extra hour out of your way.
sober enough to seize an opportunity you knew i would never have complied with sober.
(like the weird little pathetic gremlin you are)
sober enough to rape me and make it home in a—
poof.

but it still wasn’t enough for them.
because in the eyes of the law,
unless you die on the floor,
in front of their eyes
it doesn’t count.

but hey steven,
hear me out for a second—
you think this is over?

new jersey doesn’t have a statute of limitations, you dumb troll.
and now i know the law better than the pigs who let you off the first time.

this isn’t a threat.
it’s just a fact.

you’re not even a villain in my story.
you’re a thought that makes me want to peel my own skin off.
a fucking weird gross stain.
a fuckup i haven’t gotten around to correcting yet.

you’re insidious because you hide behind niceness.
but someday people will know exactly what you did to me.

and that title will stay with you forever.

you’re just a body walking around waiting for the truth to catch up.

and it will.
(hope you sleep okay)