A Poem about Doctor’s as Abusers

When the door closes
And clothes fall
From tired shoulders,
I assume I am alone.
The pain contorts
My fatigued face muscles;
Thenn I notice him,
Standing stone still in scrubs,
Sulking in the corner.
As I lie on the table,
The fear is familiar.
Though his hands
Are different,
And in different places,
Their weight on my ankles
Feel like shackles.
I glance at the door,
Latched tight.
Fingers grip my leg,
Tighter now as he tries
To extract vulgar phrases
From my frozen body.
As he begins
To stick needles in me,
Begging me to let
Dirt drip from my lips,
I felt no options
But to give in.

-sexual violence isn’t always a sexual act