Consent.

They never took it.
That’s what makes it worse.
I gave.

Like peeling off my skin
and handing it to wolves
because they smiled when they asked.

Not with teeth,
not with fists,
just with please and baby
and enough space for me to say no
and die by it anyway.

I nodded.
Not because I wanted to,
but because
I didn’t want to be asked again.
Because I thought that’s what
good girls in bad skin do.

I laid there,
a grave still breathing.
Let them dig.
Let them say
"She said yes."

They’ll never know
how silence can scream
in a voice so quiet
it never gets heard
outside your ribs.

Now
I wear a body that doesn't flinch.
That doesn’t trade comfort
for being called kind.
That says "stop"
with the kind of voice
you don’t question.

Next time,
I won’t write it on my spine
for you to read in hindsight.
I’ll say:
"I don’t like you like that."
"I don’t want this."
"And if I do it anyway,
it won’t be for you."

You called it consent.
I call it
a quiet suicide,
repeated.

But I lived.
And now,
my mouth is a gate
you won’t get through
without my joy
as your passport.