Poetry: “Her” by Alessandra Ortiz


**WARNING: Do not read if you are sensitive to or triggered by abusive relationships of any kind including domestic abuse, emotional abuse, or rape. This is purely a fictitious poem hoping to create more awareness regarding physical abuse.**

Her hands shook softly

I noticed that much

And that her innocent heart was just too good to touch.

I remember that night

Very well indeed

She had one too many drinks

And that heart started to bleed.

I carried her weight

From the couch to the bed

Curiously wondering what words went unsaid

Contemplating if I should sleep in her bed

So I crawled up next to her

Hoping I hadn’t misred.

There she laid

Thoughtless and dazed

Her body black

With white lines across her face.

My hands shook softly

But I wasn’t afraid

So I leaned in slowly

And kissed that beautiful babe.

Her curves were sexy

Luring me in too deep

She suddenly spoke out,

“Stop, I need some sleep.”

But it was too late now

And I wasn’t even sorry

This kind of thing was supposed to happen at these parties.

She laid there, still

Tears streaming from her eyes

As I finished in ecstasy

Her purity was now mine.

All thanks to a little dose of red wine

Tequila shots, Vodka, Manhattans and lime.

She staggered to the shower

Stripped of all her clothes and pride

When she turned around and whispered,

“I wished to be a virgin bride.”

But it was too late now

And we weren’t even sorry

Because there was nothing she could do

She had to face reality.

Creative Pieces dear hope

1 in 4: How I Learned To Be A Survivor (And Learned To Live Again)

This piece comes from an extremely talented writer and close friend and I urge everyone to check out her piece about tragedy, despair, and overcoming mental anguish.

Trigger Warning: Rape, Suicide.

I still think about the day that I was taking a walk with my dad in early spring, and we were talking about rape. I remember saying, “I would definitely kill myself if I was ever raped. I don’t think I would want to live through that. It’s probably the only reason I would ever actually commit suicide.


It was a heavy topic for a nice leisurely stroll, but we were talking about a recent story in the media and had veered off into personal examples of people we knew that were rape survivors. I knew people survived all kinds of sad, traumatic experiences – cancer, loss of loved ones, car crashes, physical violence, child abuse – and I’ve gone through a lot myself. I lost my mom unexpectedly when I was eleven, and I lost one of my best friends to a car accident when I was eighteen. I came out as bisexual in middle school and went through a long period of intense bullying. But for some reason, I couldn’t shake the idea of rape as being the most horrible thing for a person to have to live with.

This was a couple years before the night that changed my life. I attended a college party at UMass Dartmouth with a friend, where others drank but I didn’t, and where I knew a couple people but not everyone. It was my first experience spending significant time at the school. When I woke up the next day, I realized I had been drugged during the night. I woke up in the afternoon, groggy and confused, and I knew then that I had to make a decision.

I had been raped. But I didn’t know if I wanted to make good on that promise to myself: to end my life if I became a survivor. I only knew one thing. I didn’t want to survive.

Article dear hope