percentage

March 2020

we're a percentage. 

some part of the 99 percent.

some lucky ones part of the 1 percent. 

how shameful it must be to have to call them the lucky girls. 

even worse to not be a part of them. 

why cant we all be the lucky girls? 

but all we are right now is a percentage of victims.

victims to the crimes men commit on us. 

a percentage on a chart on a wall, 

like the one he pinned me against while i cried out "no." 

a percentage in a history book 

like in the classroom he groped me in. 

a percentage men want to ignore 

as they proceed to add to that percentage. 

we're a percentage. 

and its my turn to say me too. 

cause me too have been used and abused

by a boy who couldnt take no for an answer 

and thought me shouting no was a yes 

and i am going to say me too. 

cause me too was used for my body 

like if i was a piece of property.

to use and abuse like no tomorrow

like the day i thought i'd never see.

like the mirror i refused to look at 

after me too was left with bruises on my wrists 

and a mark on my neck. 

cause me too was used and abused. 

by someone i thought i could call a friend. 

didnt think this was how things would end. 

in me crying over how me too 

am a percentage of survivors not victims. 

because i choose to live as a survivor. 

not someone a friend could turn me into a victim. 

no. 

no one could. 

because i am a survivor. 

i survived the person i called a "friend". 

im a survivor. 

not a percentage. p

not a victim

me too, am a survivor.