“Don’t Come at Me With Your…”

by Adena M’lynn and the millions of other survivors of childhood sexual trauma

Rape is never okay.

Don’t come at me with your

“But what was she wearing?”

I swear on every god that’s ever grieved,

the hemline of my skirt

was not an invitation

to your violence.

Don’t come at me with

“Boys will be boys”

unless you’re ready to explain

why your definition of boyhood

includes bruises

on my thighs

and silence

stitched into my throat.

Don’t come at me with

your locker room logic,

your courtroom gaslight,

your Bible verse bent like a noose

around my body.

And don’t you dare

stand in a position of power—

behind a podium,

in a pulpit,

on the marble floors of justice—

while holding your penis

in your hand

under your desk,

undressing me

with the same hand

that grades papers

signs bills

and contracts

and GAG orders.

You,

in your tailored suit,

with your  MBA,

Manipulation, Bullying & Abuse and,

your handshake that feels

like a trapdoor—

you think power

means entitlement,

means she won’t say no

if she’s afraid

she’ll lose her job,

her scholarship,

her shot at surviving.

You think silence

is seduction.

That her stillness

is consent.

But it’s not.

It’s fear

masquerading as stillness

because she was raised

to prioritize your comfort

over her own safety.

You sit on boards

and behind benches

and at the head of tables

where no one ever asks

how many lives you’ve broken

between expense reports

and campaign dinners.

And when we finally speak,

you call it hysteria.

But we are not hysterical—

we are historical.

We are what happens

when your secrets

grow teeth

and start writing poems.

Tell me how

you confuse consent

with conquest.

How “no”

sounds like a challenge

instead of a command.

How my tears

read to you

like a blank check

signed in shame.

Don’t come at me with

“It’s complicated.”

No.

What’s complicated

is learning to love yourself

after someone tells you

your body is only worthy

when it’s broken.

What’s complicated

is testifying

to a world

that sees rape as a rumor

instead of a war crime.

What’s complicated

is the way my own reflection

flinched for years,

like I was still bracing

for the next time

someone would mistake

my existence

for permission.

Rape is never okay.

This isn’t up for debate.

This shouldn’t be a political issue.

It’s a human one.

And I am not your scapegoat.

I am not your lesson.

I am not your regret

in the rearview mirror.

I am fire

and flood

and a million women

rising in unison

screaming

“NO.”

You don’t get to edit that.