The last letter from a rape victim

If reincarnation is true, I would like you to be back as dog, not the type to be kept as a pet but more of a mongrel that corrodes street walls with urine. You lost the privilege of being human the day I realized that my toilet was blocked by a fetus you sired.
Dear Rapist,
If only God listened to my Prayers, I would whisper a prayer that with every passing second, the noose around your neck would tighten just enough to let gasp for breath your entire life. This will teach you that having the strength to breathe is one of the greatest miracles not yet put in books of records. But I guess God listens not to those in most need and that is why he permitted you to trade my breath for momentary pleasure.
When you tore my pants it’s not the only thing I owned that you brought to a premature end, that day I died and I have died a thousand deaths since then for what is the need of a breath if it can’t fuel the pursuit of your dreams? My dreams got slain the moment my dignity followed a trail of blood that my virginity left on my legs as it exited.
Dear Rapist, I’m done doing the last of my laundry but no amount of detergents has been able to remove the dark stains of blame bagging my conscience.
I have tried to convince myself that maybe you didn’t mean to do it; that you were also a victim of a system that taught our brothers that a woman is a shoe; one size that fits all. Shove in and be counted as a man, but how can’t I blame you when it is the same system that taught us to blame the bullets for killing people while protecting the hands that pulled the trigger?
Dear Rapist, I ‘m done asking endless questions that only serve to permeate my conscience with depression. We get raped for being at the right places at the wrong time, we get raped for dressing what fits as right, and we get raped for refusing to call back at your catcalls. Everyday women die at the hands of weak men who are slaves to their own erections.
When I fought you back you hit my head with a cold metal this I guess was to remind me of my place in this society that had made a woman a laboratory where you men run your fertility tests.
And, yes, your test turned positive. Three months later the evidence of your potency was a blocked toilet _and a lesson that all it takes to sire a child is an erection but fruits of mere erection grow up to face rejection from their own mothers and I couldn’t let my child face such hostility. It’s only fruits of love that can be brought up with love.
Dear rapist remind the male species that it takes more than just a trace on a mendelian chart to father a kid and sons with no father figure get devoured by identity crisis trying to prove their worth by outrageous figures like how many women they’ve slept with, how much money can their wallets hold, how many fights have they won so I’m afraid your son could have become a robber or a rapist like you. I couldn’t let my own blood spill another woman’s blood.
woe unto you rapists who reduce the lifespan of women to the length of your penis
woe unto you men who equate the worth of a woman to how tight you think her vagina is. Karma isn’t dead and soon enough you’ll know the pain I felt when it becomes your daughter’s.
Dear men, No is just a mono-syllable. How many times must I tell you No to know it has no hidden meaning like a parable?
Dear Rapist, I’m done doing the last of my laundry but no amount of detergents has been able to remove the dark stains of blame bagging my conscience.
Your potency was not the only test that turned positive. I now take medicine. I have tried to forgive myself for having killed an innocent child but what chances did he have? Do you know how painful it is to bring up a child knowing that you will die and leave him before he’s strong enough to stand on his own feet? Can you feel the pain of watching your own son die in your arms when deep down you know you infected him? I couldn’t take it.
Dear Rapist, I’m done doing the last of my laundry but no amount of detergents has been able to remove the dark stains of blame bagging my conscience.
I’m sick and tired of living a lie. My friends think I have become too good for them but If I told them of my sickness wouldn’t they flee from me? I’m tired of living in isolation just because you gave me a secret I’m no longer willing to keep. I’m tired of popping pills and hospital visits. I’m done trying to convince my conscience that it wasn’t my fault that I got raped. I’m done pretending to be free when you constantly peep into my thoughts to remind me of all the filth you’ve made me be. I’m done pretending to be brave when I can’t even trust myself with my safety.
Dear Rapist, I’m done doing the last of my laundry but no amount of detergents has been able to remove the dark stains of blame bagging my conscience.
Dear rapist, you’ve got my neck in a tight noose
Only a kiss of death can set me loose

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9 thoughts on “The last letter from a rape victim”

    1. I’m so sorry to hear of your experience, this trauma takes eternity to end, it’s so unfortunate that rapists live happily far from the arms of the law; Karma is a slow coach though, but when it catches up with them, the strokes for the pain they caused hits them hard

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