The R Word Now Stands for Release

The R Word Now Stands For Release - Poem and Performance

Red is the color of love, anger, passion, hate, and heart. In this piece, I am trying to relearn mine.

In this piece, I had a class of 20 read my r*pe story before me, as I stood between these two empty chairs/full balloons. In the two balloons are pictures of my, at the time, two rapists, one balloon for each of them, full of photos of them. Photos I'm in, or have taken.

When my class finished reading the poem, I asked them to destroy it in whatever means they felt necessary.

Somewhere the balloons have popped and the photos mean nothing.

On this day, letting them go meant the world.

The R Word Now Stands for Release.
Filmed at SUNY Purchase by Aidan Macaluso.

Poem below.

there's two of them
one of me
and one week in between.
1:
i told him his father assaulted me when i was fifteen and at eighteen i'm watching him cry about it
(i don't cry)
(i have no tears left for his father)
his father sent me roses every year until his son graduated
and i
eighteen
about to graduate
spill this secret to the son
this secret that's been stitched shut by the school because
the family donates a lot of money.
the son holds my hand and drives me to the beach when my father has been shouting
the son kisses me in my living room, in front of my mother and
i feel his father on my tongue
it's a sunny sunday and we're driving and he puts his hand on my thigh. i stop the breath in my lungs from escaping out my mouth
and despite there being no sound he silences me
"how does it feel to be the first one in months"
i don't answer because he's on top of me and i can't breathe let alone scream let alone
stop it.
-a week later -
2:
i tell him i'm leaving to new york (at eighteen) and (at seventeen) he wishes he could come along
we have a word between us always
and he says it while we're on his roof
smoking ourselves dryer than the california sky
i bring him leftover vodka in a water bottle i don't know he's put it in our drinks
his hand is on my hand because we're best friends and i'm leaving and he's trying to hold on to every moment he has left
and then somehow we're inside and he's inside
and i'm screaming
bob marley is playing on a crosley record player telling me
every little thing is gonna be alright
but it's not
"tell me you love me"
i don't and he beats the message into my skull until i say it
i have bruises the size of his fists and hickeys that feel like battle wounds "you love me, bitch. you love me."
he tells them all i told him
i loved him
he tells me
it wasn't the r word
because he wasn't of age
always means something different nowadays.
two of them.
one of me.
one week in between.
the r word now stands for release.

em hampton

there's two of them
one of me
and one week in between.

1:
i told him his father assaulted me when i was fifteen and at eighteen i'm watching him cry about it

(i don't cry)
(i have no tears left for his father)

his father sent me roses every year until his son graduated

and i
eighteen
about to graduate
spill this secret to the son
this secret that's been stitched shut by the school because

the family donates a lot of money.
the son holds my hand and drives me to the beach when my father has been shouting

the son kisses me in my living room, in front of my mother and
i feel his father on my tongue

it's a sunny sunday and we're driving and he puts his hand on my thigh. i stop the breath in my lungs from escaping out my mouth

and despite there being no sound he silences me

"how does it feel to be the first one in months"

i don't answer because he's on top of me and i can't breathe let alone scream let alone

stop it.

-a week later -

2:
i tell him i'm leaving to new york (at eighteen) and (at seventeen) he wishes he could come along

we have a word between us always

and he says it while we're on his roof
smoking ourselves dryer than the california sky

i bring him leftover vodka in a water bottle i don't know he's put it in our drinks

his hand is on my hand because we're best friends and i'm leaving and he's trying to hold on to every moment he has left

and then somehow we're inside and he's inside
and i'm screaming

bob marley is playing on a crosley record player telling me
every little thing is gonna be alright

but it's not
"tell me you love me"
i don't and he beats the message into my skull until i say it
i have bruises the size of his fists and hickeys that feel like battle wounds "you love me, bitch. you love me."

he tells them all i told him
i loved him

he tells me
it wasn't the r word

because he wasn't of age
always means something different nowadays.

two of them.
one of me.
one week in between.