8 year old is not the time to have this.
I was sent to the store, and on the way home, a guy jumped me, lifted my skirt and raped me. I didn’t have words for it then. He stole the change, and I had words for that too.
My mom had words too, she called me a liar.
I didn’t think much of it when I started hanging over friend’s houses after school. One had access to some porn, and I said this one happened to me.
They called me a liar.
By junior high, I turned total goth, where depression fit well. I told my story in poems.
No one believed I had it in my background.
Actually, no no one. I had this boy who followed me outside when I went for a good cry. He said he believed I had a rape secret. He started to kiss me, I didn’t know why, until he proceeded to more.
I had another rape secret.
I told my friends what he did. They called me a liar.
At that point, talking about it became painful. Right now, I feel sick, and I think I need to end this right here.
— Cassie, age 16