If he is in-between worlds when
his hand grabs my vulva without invitation,
is it still a violation,
when he has no memory
of jacking his cock off
against my hip
without my consent?
Brutal heat of revulsion
lasering him at center target,
burning no one but me because
he does not remember how he attempted to use me
like a sock teenage boys masturbate into,
like a whore too cheap to even pay,
like a 1950s Catholic housewife who must submit
regardless of desire
or lack of desire.
The “how dare he” rage
ricochets.
There is nowhere to place this violation.
It lands instead in my own stomach
which quietly heaves,
never passing the throat that clamps
to silence the scream
which is convinced it has no right because
after all,
“he was asleep.”
© Sabrina Santa Clara, 2012