Me too.
I remember your faces. Your hands. Your words. Your eyes. Your “jokes”. Your entitlement. Your nearly-masked rage. I remember your magical thinking that “we’d shared a moment” and your attempts at damage control to ensure you weren’t discovered. I remember getting ready for work, trying for umpteenth time to dress for success without seeming too sexy. Calculating how to be confidant enough to get the right kind of, promotion-worthy attention but not too confidant to entice you. I remember wondering when you’d take your hands off me. Or when you’d just back away. When you’d stop talking. Or leering. Or seeing me as yours. And then there are all the times I’ve nearly forgotten, so normalized they became mundane.
I remember never not knowing that you were out there. Somewhere. In a bar in Mexico when I’d mistakenly walked away from friends. Or a doctor’s office in college while I was sick and suffering. Or in an office building donning perfectly pressed pants. Or at a party when I’d let my guard down. Or on the street as I dared to pass by.
I am angry but I am not afraid. Because I know that you no longer have the power. That you are outnumbered and outflanked by good, grace and grit. That a powerful light is shining and it will find you no matter what dark crevice you slither into. That I am not alone. That we stand together. And that good, love and truth prevails.