by Sarah Kiepper
When the #metoo movement began,
I couldn’t say “me too”
because I had never been raped,
or sexually assaulted,
like all of the others.
Only molested as a child.
Just unwillingly fingered
as a preteen.
My virginity stolen like a box
checked at twenty.
My tits unwelcomingly pawed and
my ass fondled at thirty.
The act of lovemaking sparse in my
marriage due to the mental health
of my partner in my forties.
Me too.
To the Women in My Life who Didn’t Protect Me When I was a Child
I forgive you, but I don’t understand.
How was it more important to you what the world thought about our
family than protecting your daughters and nieces?
You kept secrets that should have been told. Lied over our truths.
Hushed cries for help. Didn’t soothe fears.
Fought against filing police reports and court testimonies.
Nervously laughed away accusations from long ago.
Then you put us back out there again:
To kiss everyone goodbye before leaving the family party.
You sent us into the woods for walks and the lake to swim with him—with them—and
you didn’t check back for a while, which of course was too late—but
you knew that because the same had happened to you by your
husbands; brothers; fathers; uncles; cousins; neighbors.
Yet, they still attend family gatherings because “we can’t hold that against him forever, can we?”
The generational mental and emotional trauma was caused physically by them, but you allowed
it to happen, and encouraged us to do the same with our nieces and daughters.
It was never okay to keep these secrets from us.
You don’t get to decide for us as we are raising our children.
We refuse to continue the same incestuous cycle with family, colleagues, or lovers.
We will protect our children.
Even from you.