**Content warning: sexual violence, including minimization and victim-blaming. Take care of and be gentle with yourselves, y’all.
I devoured Part 2 of Surviving R. Kelly, consuming each episode with a thirsty plea to be able to distance myself. Rewind this journey and renaissance the narrative, so that I too was in a reckoning stage.
Heed the neon sign, glaring, winking quasi-flirting less you stare for a beat too long:
voices of black survivors: choked,
Stomped on. forever unthought about, like the mud slung from cleat to rug. Brown stains on the carpet
My body is desirable enough for a phuck, his ceremonial passageway into kingdom lay between the canals of my thighs.
Object human adjacent.
I stopped fighting for me to be whole, nothing gets under a skeleton’s skin. His ritual of vulva pulling, primal pelvic thrusts immortalized my erasure.
While etching him a deity my body existed wholly outside of me.
Equating rape with tenderness, substituting a spicy night for assault.
This demigod reigned ruthless,
I now want to bring flowers to the grave of that teenager, when I ceased being me.