30 Days After the Rape

After waiting for two hours at the GU clinic,
a nurse took me into her office.

I sank into the chair’s cold cushion
while she asked me
when was the last time I had sex.

I pictured him on top of me.
My skin secreted fear
as I caged in a burst of rapid breaths.
A month ago, early July.

She brought out bigger needles:
Were you receptive?
as if the rape was
a God-given gift.

Yes,
I murmured, staring
at my shuffling feet.

Did you use a condom?

I shook my head,
feeling him bare
inside me.
I want to scream
Stop
all over again,
push him off my body
but it’s only a memory —
an image I can’t force away.

She rolled her eyes,
Have you ever heard about PrEP?

Yes, I know what it is.

You should consider getting it,
especially if you don’t use protection.

It never was my decision
to have my colon torn,
ripped apart, bleeding
for the next three days.

I never consented to having
his weight sink on my back,
never consented to suffering
from unruly panic attacks.

But I should be on PrEP,
because I’m a freak
who didn’t play safe.

My head is feeding me whispers:
I’m the one to blame;
I got what I deserved.

Head sunk in my neck, I nodded,
slipped the prescription in my pocket
while she suggested I book another session.

They took the samples from my hands
and I left with no will to return,
to rather be diseased;
to rather be dead.

Jeremy Mifsud (they/them) is a queer Maltese poet, residing in Valencia. Jeremy uses writing to delve deep into their queerness, neurodivergence, and trauma.Their proudest publication to date is the chapbook From the Backseat of a Bus (Ghost City Press, 2019).