It scares me that I feel you slipping away. 
Or maybe you were never there in the first place. 
Gaping holes in my memories endlessly taunt me.
I should remember the first time with you, yet I only remember the emotions. 
The confusion. The racing heart and sweaty palms mistakenly taken as love. 
I remember you asking permission, after you had already done it.
I remember not wanting to upset you, so of course, I smiled and said it was okay.

You were smart, cunning perhaps. You made sure to woe me with pleasures first so that I felt indebted to you. 
But when it was your turn, your tender touch disappeared along with the person I thought I knew. 
You fed me lines about how you were under my spell. That you couldn’t contain yourself around me. As if it were me who seduced you. 
But you kissed me first. You told me you loved me first. You took off my clothes. 

It’s not black and white, it’s the most hateful grey my eyes have ever rested on. 
You aren’t the monster people want you to be. You aren’t the monster I wish you were. 
As soon as you are labelled as such, you become invisible again. Harder to catch and impossible to understand. 
To reduce you to that is an injustice to me and victims who could be spared this experience.
It’s not evil vs innocence. It’s not black vs white because sexual abuse resides in the murky and detestable grey.