My rapist doesn’t know he’s a rapist you taught him it wasn’t his fault. I drank too much, flirted and my shorts. Too short. I was asking for it. He left me in a parking garage staircase. My (ex)boyfriend spit in my face. he called me a slut, he called me a whore. I deserved it. My friends gave me dirty looks. They called me trash, not realizing, it could have been them. This culture, your culture, my culture, told them, told me, this was my fault. And I suffered. But, my rapist doesn’t know he’s a rapist.
I am not ashamed. I will take a stand.
Slutwalk D.C. 2011