Note to a Rapist

You ascribe to my body
praise and worship. The
value of a piece of fruit,
Ripe and bursting
with juice. You lift
me and you unravel
my mystery.
A boy impatient with his wrapped
presents. But this isn’t Christmas, and this
Present was never given. Taken like
The fruit of a tree not freely offered.
You suck the life, the purity,
the essence that I too have
Out through the orifice
You forced with a straw.
And when you are finished,
Belching with sweet contentment,
Laughing with the great pleasure,
I am taken, by you and by myself,
to a place where
I did not once
Belong. The abode of
a community of the
defaced, the despoiled.
Because I am not a piece
of fruit, there is an
experience I ascribe
to this…This thing.
Thenceforth,
I become a spectre
In the shadow of
that eternal memory