The Day The World Changed

Mom didn't say much on the way.
I think she was just trying
not to cry.

The lady at the police station
asked too many questions,
but she had a voice like a lullaby,
and held my hand when the tears wouldn't stop.

Her office smelled like flowers
and lemon wipes.
Everything looked clean.
I still felt dirty.

Words like
forcible,
coercion,
age-of-consent
were thrown around.
I didn't know
what they meant.

They gave me a cup to pee in.
Said it was just a test—
just in case.
I didn't know what it was for.
I do now.

A nurse told me I was brave,
while they poked and prodded
in places I don't talk about.
I didn't feel brave.
They said it was for "evidence,"
like my body was a crime scene
wrapped in yellow tape.
I just wanted it to be over.

When we got home,
my room looked exactly the same—
stuffed bear on the bed,
stickers on the mirror,
Taylor Swift posters on the wall.
But I didn't know how to be
that girl anymore.

So I just curled up under my covers
and waited
to feel
like me
again.

I'm still waiting.