Phoenix.

Trigger Warning: This piece contains references to sexual assault and trauma. Please read with care.

—

I once heard a victim say he couldn’t call himself a survivor.
Because survivor means you fought a battle 

and won.
You escaped. You were victorious.

I wasn’t victorious. I didn’t fight.
My eyes tried to scream what my covered mouth could not,
but it wasn’t enough.
It’s never enough.

So when people say,
"You have pretty eyes"
I resist the urge to ask:
Can you really see through them?
Or are you too shallow, drawn only to 

reflections—

missing the flood of pain behind this glass?

Forgive me if I'm causing a scene.
I do not only want to be seen–
I’m in dire need of saving.

So when I stare into your soul
and hold your hands in mine,
I silently wish you feel the ache in my heart 
and understand this poetry 
is not just art.

I remember trying so hard to forget the taste
of the strawberry pinpop—
it still lingers on my tongue,
like a bribe I didn’t know I accepted.
It was just a game, they said. 
but I was just a kid.

Even the smell of schoolyards turns my stomach. 
too many memories packed into too little space.
the silence stitched into me like a second skin, 
tighter than any uniform I wore.

But healing doesn't come wrapped in rescue.
It comes in fragments—
in broken memories I number to make sense of the pain:

       1. I am not a survivor.
I carry this hurt and memory
Like it’s sewn into the lining of my skin.

      2. I was just lucky.
At least someone dared to look at the weird girl—
the ugly one.
why should I be offended?
didn’t I enjoy the attention?

      3. Look at me.
Do you see yourself struggle?
you might be a man now—
but you were just a boy.
you didn’t deserve that insult. 
It's shameful to talk about, 
and more shameful to admit that you 

didn't want it. 
Let nobody convince you that it's not that deep. 
It is that deep. 
             Wasn't it? 

      4. I was at fault.
I could’ve escaped. I could’ve been victorious. 
I could’ve fought off—
   

      5. Boys. Five
Boys who thought I was theirs to break.
who thought of tossing me around
like a thing that couldn't bleed.
and men who thought being stronger than women
gave them the advantage to take advantage. 
Is that the excuse now?
that because we bear the entrance,
we must never speak of what passed through?

—

I stand before you a body of glass
and tell me do I reflect your fear?
do the memories hover
like a storm cloud that never leaves?

Does the ghost of the tape around your 
mouth still haunt you?

do your hands still tremble 
as you remember your struggle to take it off 
but your hands were zipped, and your body 
was bruised. 
Your tears fell to naught.
you could've sworn you called for help
why did no one rescue you?

Do you think you can carry this to your grave
before it breaks your back,
the way they broke your voice?
does this thought send echoes through your spine?
when you try to straighten up,
does it curve with the weight of memory?

Do not relive it.
It cuts deeper than violin strings on bare skin.
up, down, up.
let the liquid not be the only thing that escapes. 
let the pain out.

But is pain all you'll ever be?
or is it proof that you're still here? 
that you are, indeed, a survivor. 

Do not hold this hurt like water in your mouth. 
spit it out.
let the silence rot where it was born.
this could be your victory song. 

The things you couldn't say–
let my poetry carry what your mouth could not.
let it scream if you still can't. 


Author’s Note
This spoken word piece was first presented at a creatives event held in Ibadan. It was written in April (SA Prevention Month) as an ode to survivors.

If this is something you went through, I hope these words find a way into your heart and whisper that you are not alone. ❤️‍🩹