Cracking Consent

Cracking Consent

No.

Have you heard of it?

It's the dark empty noise we call silence.

Know what it means?

Consent is not the absence of a simple “no.”

You didn't know that?

Crack.

With what wretched warmth was your touch.

Your unwanted touch.

Crack.

My skin cracks as you lay your warm, dry, hands upon my soft, cold skin.

I breathe heavily in disgust and fear.

Crack.

The rustling of the trees outside.

Thunder and lighting.

Cold rain.

A mere distinction of that soothing landscape outside the closed doors.

Open.

I feel hopeless.

I can't regain a steady breath.

A calm heartbeat.

Piece by piece.

I crack.

A silent pause doesn't mean yes.

A momentary thought doesn't mean yes.

My body quivering isn't the definition of “ I want more.”

No.

No.

NO.

My mind captivated by your creeping gaze.

That little, grim, smirk.

You've shattered me.

Crack.

I'm broken.

My body, coated with shame.

My voice, as dry as your calloused hands.

My mind.

Blank.

My nose, stuck with the scent of your canali cologne.

Suddenly.

Words I've been struggling to find, pour out of my mouth.

Like a storm, rain flooding the streets and the lightning striking so angrily.

I raise my arm.

Slap.

“FUCK OFF!”

You don't have MY consent.

Summer Ayres