Because when a third gynecologist asked me when I’d given birth, and when I went pale and told her no, stop, truly, I’d never been pregnant, and when she said that my cervix was shredded and looked like I had—even then, when the pain was not just inexperience or theatrics; when acknowledgment imposed proof of force (and proof was somehow necessary), even after Fucking eureka, even with the truth inflicted, what was there to say? Because the doctor said to herself, “Wow,” and didn’t offer much beyond the explanation that the tear he tore continued to rip the more he had sex with me, and as she finished the exam, she said, “You’ll feel some more pressure,” but I didn’t feel anything, not for two years.
Because I wasn’t sure when I went from thinking I was having sex to thinking I was being had sex with.
Because love and sex left me as my entertainment said and I’d hoped it would: passion shattered.
Because worst-case scenario is murder.
Oh, because it wasn’t that bad.