When Rage Writes // A Letter To An Abuser

The news is filled with men like you.
Men in power who prey on women.
Men who were once boys.
Boys who prey on girls.
And yes it’s been triggering as the headlines open wide the door to uninvited guests in my mind.
You are the most unwelcome here.
And yes it’s been empowering. Because the news is filled with women like me.
Women who know their power.
Does it frighten you that I am finally so keenly aware of mine?
Does it make you nervous — scared even — that I can drop your name at the drop of a hat and then sit back to watch the hills surrounding the valley of our hometown crumble?
When you wake up in the night do you think about the power in my pen and how the single syllable of your name might just be on the tip of my tongue?
Do you drink so you don’t have to think about how your tongue once held the power of my silence but now my tongue holds all the power?
The rage.
The memory.
The memories.
The power pumps through my body like fear of you once did.
The church tried to gag me with forgiveness, but watch me clear my throat with this rage.

You stole so much. They call you a sexual abuser and I call you a murderer. Murdering who I could have been.
And yet.
I once believed you took all my body’s beauty, all my body’s power, all of my body’s knowing.
But then.
Love came and I consented.
I consented.
I consented.
Love entered me and life was born out of me.

New life came from the same body that once knew only your death.
Because despite your attempts to steal my power and call it yours

Buried in the dirt, only to take the shit and till it into fertilizer.
Because my power?
— It is limitless.
Because I can do what you will never and could never do.
I can create life in my body.
Tend to it and grow it.
And then.
I can break open to birth it.


How petty your orgasm becomes when compared to the power of my womb.
How petty men like you — boys like you — become when compared to the power of a woman.

So tell me, are you nervous?
— scared even?

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