Waif

by Samantha Kolesnik

I call it “The Time Before Men,” a version of myself I can never get back. I guess, you could say, some might also call it Innocence.

I’m not sure how men thought women were supposed to react to pain because our tears seemed to send them into panic or rage. We would have been better as sponges . . . absorbent and full of holes.

What made a man? Hatred for women, perhaps.

The first rape made me hate my body. Thereisnothingicandototakethisawayandihateithateithateitandnoonewantstohearmetalkaboutitanymoreicryintoablackholeonlygirlslikemeknow. But oh I hated them, too. M-E-N.

Even though I desperately craved affection, I also feared it.

I decided that day I wasn’t good enough for women, and I went out to the bars that night looking to hurt myself with the nearest man,

I had stopped at bed after bed, seeking some kind of love, receiving only pain,