By an Anonymous Contributor 

No.
To the teacher who thought helping me in the highs and lows in the economy meant helping himself to feeling up past my knees.
No.
To the boy who reached for me like he would a glass of whiskey, as if inside, if he groped deep enough, he might find the answers to the questions his demons called after him at night.
No.
Sir, just because I taught your grandson how to hit tennis balls does not mean I want anything to do with yours. I don’t drink, anyways.
No.
To the one who always thought I owed him more. I’m sorry but my thoughts are worth much more than a pretty penny, so go ahead and pick that up, you still won’t get lucky. Not here.
No.
Look, boy, your height doesn’t make you a man. And proving you’re stronger than me does not make me want to stand my ground any less firmer. So loosen your grip and let me go.
No.
I don’t want a drink.
No.
To the stranger I almost fell for. There’s a reason I stopped dancing with you. You made me feel beautiful. But then the swaying got deeper, and your hands wouldn’t stop roaming. Your smile still plays in my head every time I hear that song, but it doesn’t make me feel beautiful anymore.
No.
To the one who made me feel like I had to apologize for just breathing, or for not wanting you to want me. I’m very much alive, despite your efforts to make me wish otherwise.
No.
I think I lost count of how many times you’ve asked if you can buy me a drink, dude. I won’t be sipping anything that makes me slur my words around you, so maybe I should spell this out for you,
N-O. No.
I know it takes two to tango, man. But I only two step, and you have two left feet anyways.
No.
I’ve had to learn over time that sitting on a couch and watching a movie is not an invitation to introduce your mouth to mine. Go lick stamps and Mail yourself a reminder that you are not entitled to peel back anything not addressed to you. Paper or clothing.
No.
Listen, I know you speak Spanish and that’s supposed to be romantic, I know you wanna talk about my dreams, but believe me when I say you’re not in them. I know my mother gave you my number, but I don’t want to be your secreta, señor.
No.
My eyes are up here.
No.
Just because I was your girlfriend does not mean all of me belonged to you, and saying that you love me while you try to remove my clothes doesn’t make me any more compliant or willing.
No.
To the one who hated my walls, did you ever think they were there for a reason? You said that if I didn’t bring them down you would stop fighting for me. That I was never going to be able to give you enough anyways. You’re right.
No.
I don’t want a drink.
No.
To the hipster. It was really easy to read your “Slave to Jesus Christ” wrist tattoo while you were pinning me down. I hope you like this poem. You inspired it, after all.
No.
To the teacher, it’s not mysterious to call your home a wolf’s den. It’s just creepy. I wonder how many innocent girls you have devoured there. I won’t be one of them.
No.
To the Coach who liked to park next to my car while I changed. You’re a pervert. I know why you really had to change schools.
No.
I don’t want a drink.
No.
To the ex, I found someone who finds something other to compliment than my ass. Or to embarrass me about other than my chest. Speaking of asses and embarrassments, you are one.
No.

By an Anonymous Contributor

It’s very hard to talk about my experience because I haven’t felt like I am free to discuss it since it happened. Even though my loved ones care deeply for my wellbeing, they are hurting, too, which makes it hard to bring up. Because why would I want to bring up pain they feel as well?

Almost a year ago, it was a normal Friday night, and I had gone to a get together at a friends house. I was sixteen at the time, and we often hung out at this house. It was a comforting and happy home. Unfortunately, the neighborhood we were in was not a great area. We knew that there were high crime rates in this part of town, but we never thought anything would happen. I had been drinking, but I had sobered up by the time I needed to head home. I frequently took ubers home when I knew that I would be drinking, and in the past the uber drivers have had trouble finding the right building. So I thought that it would be smart to walk to the gas station that was a quater mile away, and get picked up there. My friends made a few comments about walking alone, but I dismissed them and said I’d be fine. When I got to the gas station, I was walking up to the front and a man, who was sitting along the side of the building, said something to me. I wasn’t sure what he said, but being naive, I stepped closer and he grabbed the backs of my legs. I tried to stay calm and relax, but when I tried to push away, I realized that I was not strong enough. Panic started to set it and he told me if I kissed him he’d let me go. I tried to explain that I was just trying to get home and to please let me go. He kept tightening his grab and sliding his hand up my dress. I finally agreed, because I just wanted to get home. He let me go and I tried to walk away quickly. There were so many people around the front and side of the building, and I was so terrified, so I just turned around and tried to walk around to the other side. This was a clear mistake, and many people question why I would ever do this, but I couldn’t think clearly, and I was just trying to get away. He followed behind me and grabbed me when I got to the other side. He then made me do things while his friend watched. I finally saw a chance to run away, and that’s what I did.

The police told me that I was lying, that I was a prostitute, and they asked my mom to look through my phone. People asked me why I didn’t scream, why I didn’t fight back, and it’s soemthing I’ve struggled with for a long time. I’ve replayed that night over and over again thinking of everything I should’ve done differently. It’s hard to explain to people that I was too scared to react. That I was too scared of him killing me to try anything. I find it really hard to not blame myself for it.

The guy was never found, the case was closed after about two months. I didn’t even want to go to the police in the first place, I just wanted to forget.

Often at school, I hear people joke about rape and talk about it as if it’s a laughing matter. It’s something I’ve had to accept and I’ve tried my hardest to not let it get to me. They don’t know what happened to me, and I know they’re just ignorant, but it’s painful to hear. I think this campaign is a wonderful idea, and I really hope that awareness is spread. I hope that people start to take this issue seriously.

It’s been 11 months since this happened, and I’ve really struggled with being alone, thank you for giving me a place to share my story.

By an Anonymous Contributor 

I was 14, I am now 15 and I regret a lot of things in my life – here is one. I was sitting at home and I got a message from someone on my phone. I answered it not knowing who it was all I knew is it was someone online. We talked I found out it was a male who lived near by and he thought I was hot. I was flattered then he started threatening me saying a whole bunch of things, I got scared. I did what he asked trying to avoid the threats from becoming reality but after the first picture was sent I realized I was played. But I couldn’t refuse more, otherwise I would be exposed. Eventually it became routine go to school go home do homework send nudes carry on for a while go on video chat show my body carry on and go to bed. Then one day he asked my address I didn’t really think of who I was texting so I answered. I immediately realized what I had done. That’s when I started staying up late and sneaking out just so he could make me give him oral and he would do what he wanted I never let him do vaginal sex but everything else I had to let happen. Eventually I had a reality check and said no more. I blocked him the threats never became reality and life was normal again. But then someone found out about it and made me go to the police and thats when I realised how old he really was. More than a decade older than me and married. I never got full justice because the things I had said over text made it all sound consensual. He has very little prison time and that makes me upset and I know I messed up but I’m not guilty completely. He is the predator I was just the gullible prey.

By Genevieve Armstrong

Two years ago, on June 21st, 2014 I came home from a long day of work on a Saturday night. I sat with my dad and decides to pick up Thai food for us at a restaurant maybe 6 blocks up the street. I changed my clothes and was on my way. On the walk back, I remember feeling happy, confident, walking tall with my head up like nothing would get me down. 3 blocks away from my home, I felt someone push me to the ground. My first reaction was a jogger had carelessly knocked me over. This was until I was on the ground, being repeatedly punched. Hard, forceful strikes to my head, over and over. The only thing I could do was scream for help and protect my head, struggling to kick. As I screamed, a pair of hands began ripping my clothes off, tearing at my underwear. I was wearing spanx, and my attacker(s?) could not get them off until a couple of minutes in. I continued to scream, thinking I was going to die being raped and beaten. I urinated on myself and a moment later it was over. I remember lying there for a moment before dragging myself up. I was covered in blood, one eye swollen shut, struggling to look for my phone to call the police. I frantically ran into the street, waving cars down. No one helped me. Men looked me in the eyes as I screamed and cried, pleading for help, then drove around me. The nurses and doctors laughed at me, or telling me it could be worse. I was bloodied, and humiliated. My case was one of many known as “The North Park Attacks”, as 6-7 other women had been attacked (all of which but myself and one other had been knocked out immediately). The criticism, judgment, blame, and jokes over my attack was everywhere online. I felt constant humiliation, shame, and overall rage that this is the way myself the other women in the case were being treated. I began going to rallies, sharing my story. Making my social media pages a platform to discuss and give other survivors an ear to listen. Over the next two years I learned to turn my pain into power and make sure survivors always have someone who cares. My attacker, a man who claims he was alone in my attack and the others, was caught the following September of my assault. In April of 2016, he finally plead guilty. April 7th, a “victims” (survivor’s) impact statement and sentencing was held in court. His family made excuses, cried, and stared me down as I spoke. I looked directly at the man who beat me, tore off my clothing, and tried to rape me while he cried. I will never forget telling him, “I see right through your crocodile tears, and when you die I will spit on your grave” before taking my seat. Today when I watched Ione Wells story, I felt a power. I felt the sisterhood and connection of survival. I felt inspired. Thank you, Ione. I see the pain you have turned into power and hope one day I will be able to make an organization like this one. You are truly an inspiration and motivation for me to continue to use my voice.