Hounds of Love: Poem

Content warning: sexual assault, physical assault.

E. Jean Carroll is being sued by Donald Trump for daring to say he raped her, after it was proven in court that he did.

I commented in solidarity that the boy who sexually assaulted me, should it have gone public, would have done something similar for daring to say something negative about him. If not him, his parents. For Endangering His Future And His Reputation, or something privileged, rich and white like that.

Why didn’t it go public? Because of the law and the cops. What the police said about me over live radio is the title of the episode where I told my story (NSFW—sexual assault and physical assault): “this girl just had a bad date, this won’t take long”. Yes, he did. Episode link below.

So, in solidarity and support for Carroll, I am going to share my poem about the assault and his stalking me afterwards. I hope someone takes a little strength from it as I did from writing it.

This was taken about nine months before it all started.

Hounds of Love

The blunt truth, like the blunt tip of a hewn arrowhead:

You stalked me.

After you sexually assaulted me.

Stalked. 

Pursued. 

Shadowed. 

Harrassed. 

Watched.

Hunted.

Some of our (then) mutual friends are learning of this, your hunt, now, reading this poem.

There was always an arrow pointed at me then—

College student

Victim

White hind, hunted doe

quivering, poised at the moment before the dash into the hedgerow

Anorexic purging paranoic

Pick your poison or flavor

Making much ado about nothing

"This girl just had a bad date," the cop said

(but I was choked and tortured)

"I thought you'd be past this by now," the friend said

(but I was choked and tortured)

Arrows to my heart

and then

it

wasn't

ever

over 

Sorority meetings after dark 

Nightime classes 

Midnight dashes to Blockbuster Video to avoid those late fees 

(be kind, rewind) 

and the hunter always followed 

deep into the forest of campus 

down the wide lane of Avent Ferry

into the shelter of my first home 

my Mews, I your dark muse 

on foot or by car, you followed 

my ex-boyfriend, my attacker ("This girl just had a bad date") Stalking your prey 

Watching me 

Your arrow cocked 

Your cock bowed 

Reveling in the hunt 

REVELNIT my license plate said 

and o you must have laughed as you followed its beacon in the dark 

Following my hare-white Prelude 

Prelude to more pain? 

Knowing I couldn't do anything 

because the law and (some of) our mutual friends were on your side

 ("I thought you'd be past this by now.")

 Would that I could turn back time and never open my door to you that first time or the next day when you wanted to apologize for that first time for forcing your hard kisses and touches upon me, 

that blurry watercolor memory of a horror show of a next day 

(I was choked and tortured) 

But instead you followed and watched and followed and watched and absorbed me with you eyes and your feet and your mileage and you eyes and your phone calls 

You should be Artemis' stag, quivering in hedgerows, you should feel how it is to be the hunted one, transformed for watching what was not yours, 

there in the Mews by the Lake, 

pursued by your own hunting dogs

To

The

Teeth. 

But instead I am the one transformed by your hunt. 

Forever. 

I poke the wound that used to fester, the wound shaped Iike 

I SHOULD NOT HAVE LET YOU IN 

once on Saturday night 

again on Sunday morning 

It has healed with jagged edges and no longer festers. 

It no longer tells me to go back and do it over, that it was my fault. 

(Be kind, rewind) 

You were the hunter, 

and prey is not to blame. 

I face your hounds of love head-on in therapy. 

No more quivering in the hedgerows. 

And I am an archer now. 

I hope you see yourself on the news 

#metoo 

Yes, you, too. 

Much ado about nothing! the men cry. 

and I see your next-day violent apopoletic apology ruse in their predatory eyes. 

I see your blue eyes in their every shade. 

"I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes." 

Indeed, much ado. 

I almost died in your lap, because your forced your heart upon my body. 

Your stalker hunted hound eyes tried to engulf me and tear me apart.

 Much ado about nothing ("This girl just had a bad date")

 "Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps," wrote the Bard. 

I am no longer trapped in your Mews. 

Yours, you Robbed me of them, the robber with the apt name.

 And I am an archer now. 

5.14.20, expanded 7.18.20

This Girl Just Had a Bad Date: 34

Horror, true crime, paranormal, disability through a literary lens, whimsy, writing in progress since 2017.

There Might Be Cupcakes PodcastCarla Pettigrew