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My Rapist is Going to Prom MAG
My rapist is going
to prom. He is
nineteen years old, graduated,
but he is coming home for this
dance.
He is attending with my best friend
on his arm; she knows what happened. She
once watched him hit me, her mouth lazy
with indifference,
I threw up
blood and blood and blood
in her sink.
I’ve waited to go since I was a little girl,
looked at all the dresses,
imagined getting a glamorous up-do.
I do not get to go. I am
alone with memories that haunt me.
My parents found me crying
in the back seat of my car, watching
get-ready-with-me vlogs,
I do not get to go. It is my junior prom.
He stole my virginity, my safety, my right
to my body,
my best friends,
and now he is stealing my prom.
I used to think that when I was sixteen,
I’d look across
the ballroom floor and see my boyfriend.
I look across rooms, seated limply on
tan couches,
and stare back at professionals trained to
help girls like me.
I sometimes go and try on long gowns
and cry in the dressing room into chiffon,
beads, satin.
I really, really wanted to go to prom.
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