By Ilaria Sarup
After being raped and beaten by the man she loved, a young woman confronts the silence, the shame, and the aftermath—until she finds her purpose in helping others survive what nearly destroyed her. Based on personal experience:
The pain was incredibly excruciating,
Even though it wasn’t my first time.
I screamed “No” at the top of my voice,
But I was your girlfriend—so it “wasn’t a crime.”
You were taller, bigger, brawnier, stronger,
It was easy for you to overpower me.
Your palm pressed my head against the pillow,
As I cried and felt you devour me.
I felt your grip slowly loosen,
After which my anger brought my hand to your face.
I could see my act of protest enraged you,
So I ran toward the door and felt my heart race.
You came toward me, breathing heavily,
Your fist clenched and ready to strike.
You didn’t think twice before thumping my face,
And cheekily said, “There, you know what it’s like.”
Tears burst out of my eyes and rolled down my cheek,
And my legs carried me outside your gate.
At that moment I didn’t really feel like living at all—
I wanted to leave everything to fate.
I crossed the road and looked straight ahead,
Hoping a car would smash me to shreds.
The feeling of betrayal and hurt overwhelmed me—
I would’ve much rather been dead.
I was unaware of who to call or speak to,
Thinking no one wanted to hear my voice.
The ones who loved me warned me about you,
And I was bearing the consequence of my choice.
I sat there in the train station for hours,
Tired and just wanting to grieve.
But people saw the blood on my shirt and reported me,
So the manager asked me to quickly leave.
Distorted, confused, I didn’t know what to do.
I paced up and down; to and fro.
I found myself coming back to where you lived—
I was alone and had nowhere else to go.
I rang the bell and watched you emerge,
The satisfaction was evident in your eyes.
You smirked and slowly opened the gate,
Perhaps because you were thinking from between your thighs.
Desperate as I was, I was afraid to be near you,
So I quickly grabbed a pillow and lay on the floor.
You sat down comfortably on the bed and laughed,
“That’s where you belong, you whore.”
Cut to nine years later—I’ve grown and moved on.
I’ve healed, and I’m now twenty-five.
After years of struggling to overcome and grow,
I finally learned how to thrive.
It took me time—my trauma held me back,
But now I see what I must do.
I’ll help the ones who’ve lived through fists and fear—
Their voices silenced, too.