I witnessed my first rape when I was nineteen years old,
without even knowing what it was that I saw..
But I saw it.
And it became real, to me,
when I was told afterwards..

I made a poor witness:
I couldn\'t give hardly any descriptions
and was of no real use, at all.
(Which was something that pained me
and that I have repented for.)

It ate me, for long, this happening:
I blamed myself; for not remembering more
and (above all) for not understanding it!
I thought a lot of how she experienced it.
I thought of how she might have heard us;
approaching..
How she (if it was so) must have believed that we were
The Rescue arriving.. Salvation within reach..
How that would have made her hope
and anticipate relief..
Only to be deceived.. As in the next moment she would
have heard our voices fade again when we turned
to leave...
And how I hoped she didn\'t:
I hoped she never heard a thing!
For I could sense what that would feel like..
(Even before;
I learned it, for sure.)