Dr. Christine Blasey Ford Testified on My GRE Test Day
Three days before, I did not run when I saw my rapist in the library.
A brisk walk backwards, shaking hands that still must study. Dr. Ford
says neurotransmitters encode trauma into the hippocampus of the brain.
Steady, he pulls out, slips off the condom, pushes in. He asks my saliva
drip drown mouth, if I like it. Maybe. If I like screaming. Or being split
open with garden shears. Or tasting my blood. Or burying my baby. Maybe.
Test time. Cold air classroom while I click keys for critical thinking.
Hippocampus of the brain, an empty house, a high school boy chuckles:
Most girls earn their way into my bed, what are you willing to do?
Hand near my neck, twitching fingertips. He asks if he should make an
exception, if I think I deserve it. Maybe. It doesn’t matter if the hits hurt
as long as they don’t kill me. Say what’s safer. Slick with someone else’s
sweat, my body as offering. Soon I become a sacrifice, then a tomb.
Mix my ashes in with the remains of the fetus. Did I say maybe? I meant no.
Not a word known. A middle school monster pins me against the bus window
while other students sit to watch the show. He asks the bus bystanders
if they know the five signs of rape. I tell him to stop and he smiles at me.
That’s the first sign, he says to them. They laugh. One hand on my leg,
he tells them: she’ll fight to get free. The first few days, I do. I stop
when I realize the struggle is a part of the show. Maybe ticket sales
will slow. I’ll shatter my own display case, carry the shards of glass.
I’ll never stop bleeding. Study for the test but fail anyway.
A brisk walk backwards, shaking hands that still must study. Dr. Ford
says neurotransmitters encode trauma into the hippocampus of the brain.
Steady, he pulls out, slips off the condom, pushes in. He asks my saliva
drip drown mouth, if I like it. Maybe. If I like screaming. Or being split
open with garden shears. Or tasting my blood. Or burying my baby. Maybe.
Test time. Cold air classroom while I click keys for critical thinking.
Hippocampus of the brain, an empty house, a high school boy chuckles:
Most girls earn their way into my bed, what are you willing to do?
Hand near my neck, twitching fingertips. He asks if he should make an
exception, if I think I deserve it. Maybe. It doesn’t matter if the hits hurt
as long as they don’t kill me. Say what’s safer. Slick with someone else’s
sweat, my body as offering. Soon I become a sacrifice, then a tomb.
Mix my ashes in with the remains of the fetus. Did I say maybe? I meant no.
Not a word known. A middle school monster pins me against the bus window
while other students sit to watch the show. He asks the bus bystanders
if they know the five signs of rape. I tell him to stop and he smiles at me.
That’s the first sign, he says to them. They laugh. One hand on my leg,
he tells them: she’ll fight to get free. The first few days, I do. I stop
when I realize the struggle is a part of the show. Maybe ticket sales
will slow. I’ll shatter my own display case, carry the shards of glass.
I’ll never stop bleeding. Study for the test but fail anyway.
Jasmin Lankford is a writer and world wanderer who first bloomed in Florida. Her debut poetry collection, Don’t Forget to Water the Flowers, is forthcoming 2021 with Vital Narrative Press. Lankford graduated from the University of South Florida with a degree in Communications and studied Creative Writing in France at the American University of Paris. She currently works in social media marketing. Her work has been published in several journals including Kissing Dynamite, Parentheses Journal and elsewhere.
Art: Public Domain.