Any Man

by Amber Tamblyn

I want to take off all my fingers like pen caps and write blood all over this room.

It’s not your fault. But healing your own pain does belong to you now. When we become aware, we become responsible.

People who live through sexual assault are a crash on the side of the road, and the American media is nothing more than cars slowing down just long enough to take a peek.

We are a country that capitalizes on the fetishizing of felonies.

Tell me how you prove coercion? How you prove the difference between being hit on and hunted? How you prove your arms were held down? Your body was touched? Your life was threatened if you ever told anyone? For people who have suffered violent sexual crimes, proof—the very act of proving—is more than just a burden. It is boundless bearing. An eternity of futility.

I am in a body. It is not the one I came here with, but it is the one I’ll leave here in. I will take care of it. It belongs to me now. My pain, I will take care of it. It belongs to me now. My heart, I will take care of it. It belongs to me now. My story, I will take care of it. It belongs to me now.

I have the right to recede. I have the right to swell.