The reason you don’t believe me

Is that I’ve learned, since childhood,

To smile. To laugh. To make the best of things.

Keeping peace was my girlhood work.

Making sure Dad knew he was right.

Making sure Mom knew she was loved,

And that we thought she was beautiful.

The reason you don’t believe me

Is because, deep down, you must know

That we saw the consequences of our truth-telling.

It was always mom who drove away

When things got too rough between them.

Her life, played by his rules. Maybe

It would have been different if she earned enough

To support a family of three.

The reason you don’t believe me

Is that I’m good at pretending pleasure

After years of performing heterosexuality

And that scares the shit out of you.

If I could do it for 28 years,

What else could I pretend, and for how long?

If you believe me, it might mean

You have to learn to listen more closely

To a woman’s body and words

Instead of benefitting from her fear of male violence

To continue to get what you want.

The reason you don’t believe me

Is that we had a one-night stand that summer

You knew I was slutting it up.

You know the guy I said raped me,

And he loves his mom and sisters.

He would never hurt a fly.

I’m here to tell you that in this world,

A fly’s life is of more value than a woman’s,

And there is a fly swatter in every home.

The reason you don’t believe me

Is because if I’m right, if we’re right,

Then you have done it too, and so have your friends.

If there’s anything worse than losing the court case,

It’s living with the knowledge

That you are not one of the good ones.

In order for you to believe us,

You are going to have to learn to forgive yourself.

And that is the hardest thing you’ll ever do.

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