Albatross around your neck
How does the saying go? When I die, I'd like to see so so and so lower me into the grave so they can let me down one more time?
A disappointing lot; foolish boys and wicked men.
There was Sire; he came to me bearing the gift of friendship. And what good friendship it was. The ease of belonging, laughing at inside jokes that your fellow women are not privy to, the thought that you're liked well enough by men whose primary goal is typically to fuck-on-sight to be considered a friend and not an object. But, unfortunately, in the end, usually, you're just that. A thing. They ignore boundaries and blur lines and want to fuck you and own you while treating you with disdain and disrespect. They expect you to take it, and sometimes you do.
Sire had been my friend for four years. When he insulted me, I'd laugh stilted laughter that turned my belly. When he said sad, bad things about other women, I'd protest, but I remained his friend still. Until he grabbed me by the arm and tried to get me to suck his cock. Begging me to please, just do it; he needs to nut.
I escaped, adding to the list of things I'd live to regret. The list of people I'd hate silently in my heart because when I should have, could have, expressed my true feelings towards them; pointed out their violence and highlighted their wrongs, I said and did nothing, waiting quietly for it to be over. When I saw headlights, I was deer, immobile, frozen, letting it happen to me because it was the easy alternative—the peaceful one. Walking away is easier than holding their shirt and letting them know you hate them and why. They will never get it; addressing it is torture. Baring yourself further, expecting someone to acknowledge that they wronged you? A man? Dreaming of peaceful resolution? Good luck.
There was Bee, and I had the misfortune of loving him. He said some things and did other things. He loved me until he didn't, and then he loved me again. I'd pretend to be into it while he shoved his uncoordinated fingers into me. I continued to pretend to be into it when he started to forgo that, opting to simply shove himself inside of me, expecting that I be ready to take it whenever. I loved him though, so I endured it, thought nothing of it, let it fill me with something because it was something.
Mane must have hated me, but of course, that only made him stand on my neck, refusing to leave me alone.
Rami was dishonest. I was foolish, naive, and open; he told one bald-faced lie after the other. I didn't know; I believed then that when people say things, of course, they must mean them. Why would they say them if they did not? He'd look at me, and he'd tell me sweet things that he'd expect me to be foolish enough to believe. He'd say things because he thought I wanted to hear them; he'd proclaim his love in the sun, love without substance that disappeared once I was no longer standing before him. Out of sight, out of mind.
Tayo might as well have been my brother. I trusted him, and so it was extra shocking to find out that while his brothers dishonestly slandered me (and he knew it was slander), he said nothing. When his brothers harmed me, again, to his knowledge, he offered empty platitudes, and their brotherhood was unperturbed. I might not have cared as much if not that I was foolish enough to expect solidarity. Does friendship not bring solidarity? Respect? Care?
Men do not often think women worthy of these things. Revel in your relationships with them if you will or must but remember that in the end, you are a woman, other, and they will uphold what unifies them, like the murdering, thieving rich will endorse the murderous, thieving rich.
Imagine expecting that someone be the dissenting voice on your behalf when doing so brings them nothing. Causes their peers to hiss and kiss their teeth?
When Yom slipped something in my drink and tried to kiss and touch me while I lost my mind, our mutual friend did nothing. When I called Ini fresh post-violation, he blamed me and offered no support, and because of that, I suppressed memories of the evil thing that was done to me because if my friend said it was nothing, my fault, then surely it was true?
I did not know then that friendship is rubbish when you're a woman who has been slighted by a man turning to another man. It is more productive and helpful to cry yourself into a coma—better use of time and effort.
Ray did not only lie to me but about me. He lived for validation from his friends, a minstrel to their king. He'd say all sorts, confident that it'd never touch my ears. They'd chortle together on their group chats where they gathered to gossip and violate. They'd share pictures of you that you intended for their eyes only. Then they’d see you, smile with their teeth, hug you, and call you baby.
Your no means nothing. Sometimes it's a loose suggestion. Of course, you don't mean it; you want them to change your mind. To corner you until your no fades into yes, or resigned silence. Other times, your no is a crime, an insult to their person, or maybe it's ignored altogether; your resistance means nothing.
It would be careless to allow such things to repeat themselves, but if prevention were possible, to prevent would mean to wear cynicism and nonchalance and distrust on your sleeve. It is to be closed off and unwilling to allow any other man to take you for idiot or let you down again. A herculean task because they will try their best, and you will think you know better, but does anyone really?
How do you know which witch is which? Do they not all wear human faces and smiles, and do they not all approach you with reasonable prospects?