Jeremy Mifsud

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.

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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).

Katey Funderburgh

Girlhood

called woman before my first period    a want     for dinner    a knowing     that I would make something worth consuming    beating     the chicken breast with the back     of the biggest spoon I could find    like my mother taught    break    the muscle soft and burn unpink   fork and knife to mouth drooling good work good        woman    gratitude a too tender palm     to my head    still girl salted as babytears    my hairpins stuck in rows against    my crowning     the neighborhood boys watching as their fathers soured my girl     their eyes    like buttermilk dripping     from my head to my     navel    crest of me late to break    could they smell my rawness     like my own father     did as I stood in the mirror    locked cell of his     trailer park bathroom    the bed I shared with my sister     flipped back into a table claw marks on my thighs    little blood freckles     I feared I ruined    myself the dinner yes the backhand was purpled beautiful enough to take    just some of the girl from me    blood slipping like tears down cheeks     I had already bruised    slipping between my legs   taught womanhood is a beating     iron river guzzling down throats     filling stomach    abscesses absent as if instead my bobby pins fit perfect through my iris    never a good body    displayed on the bedtable     on the sidewalk never sleeping through my father’s steps tossing the trailer     like a boat    hunger that beamed     refrigerator light across my sister    it wasn’t her blood on the sheets    it was mine mine    I’m the woman       mine

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Katey Funderburgh is an emerging poet from Colorado. She is a current MFA Poetry student at George Mason University. When she isn't toiling over poems, Katey can be found laying in the sun with her cat, Thistle.