A haiku from the article: Under Cover: Eugenie Bouchard’s Big Moment

A haiku from the article: Rules of Style | Louis Garrel on Wearing PJs in Public and the Upside to Looking Like Everyone Else

I let a boy touch
me last night. Hands against my
thighs. He was angry.

He moved against me
like tidal wave and earthquake,
bone breaking and raw.

My panties were black
and bullet-lined, but this did
not scare him one bit.

He took me quick and
sudden, with whirring fan and
fluorescent lamplight.

My mouth was closed on
his. He did not say a word.
I never said yes.

Thin-wall quiet hung
like humidity at noon.
I never said yes.

I kissed him through it
but silence is not consent.
I never said yes.

I let a boy touch
me last night. He didn’t ask
before his fingers

Were a part of me.
He didn’t ask with open
palms or open heart.

I was too silent
to tell him that it hurt. He
left me so damn raw.

I was too silenced
to tell him I regret it.
I am burnt and bruised.

Silence is not a
synonym for “yes.” I am
not a spineless book.

I’m all hurricane,
battered steel and flooded street,
and I’m still standing.

No more hiding in
the corners where no one asks,
too scared to say no.

An open palm is
not an invitation. A
kiss is no promise.

I let him touch me.
I never got to say no.
I never said yes.

—  "The Following Thoughts are Written in the Form of Haikus to Represent the Restrictiveness Felt When One is Not Asked for Consent" by M.E.S.
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