Laughing Matters

(The following is a poem about rape. Reader discretion is advised.)

When he told me about it,
I don't know what shook me more:
The message or the lol attached to it.

What’s up?
As if he is unaware of the earthquake he sent me,
Unaware that such matters require a call.

As he speaks, I try to sense his tone.
Is it an apology? Apologetics?
Pure apathy?

He states:
How he's known the boy his whole life.
How he’s like a brother to him.
How he never really liked her.
How they slept together before anyway.

I’m not saying she deserved it, but she kinda asked for it.

I wonder:
How am I hurting for her like a sister when I only met her once?
How could I explain having agency ripped away while being forced to watch?
How could the word rape roll off his tongue so easily?
How could I not see how jokes could neutralize the sting?

I ask him how he’d feel if the same was done to him.

Well, it’s not the same. She’s done it before, she prolly used to it.

I mean, if she were my girlfriend, I would’ve killed him.

Besides, it’s not like I didn’t try to help her.

I said that she’d be okay, she just needs to get over it.

Why are you so mad at me?

In retrospect, I should have said the truth:
That I’m not just angry at you —

I’m angry for you, angry on your behalf,
Angry for all men who refuse to take a stand,
Or won’t even try hold the girl’s damn hand,
Men too hard to comfort,
But too weak to fight.
Instead of raising their voices for us,
They place palms over our mouths,
And tell us we’ll be alright.

Instead,
I take to my notebooks,
Drafting messages I know I’ll never send.

—

I later call a friend, 
Hoping to shed this sense of hopelessness from my chest.

She says:
Maybe you shouldn’t be his friend.

I state:

I’ve known the boy for half my life.

He’s like a brother to me.