I thought that I owned my power.

But he smiled as he took it away.

He jested. I protested.

He pushed the door open, progressing forward.

I dug my nails in his chest and pushed back.

And he taunted and tickled me and tugged at my clothing.

Over and over, louder and louder, I told him to stop touching me and leave my house.

He smiled. I shouted.

I am 32. I am a grown ass, confident woman. I live alone. I pay my own bills. I manage an insurance brokerage. I have a degree.

How was it so easy?

How have I built this facade of safety?

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Being born and raised in the south should have made me more inbred and less tolerant, but something went wrong in the grand scheme of these damned rebels. I am; brutally honest, a bad driver with a record to prove it, a connoisseur of stand-up comedy, the eldest child, an aware procrastinator, semi-sweet, the result of my mother losing her virginity, easily excitable, a lover of music, a pretty shit liar, late to any event no matter what, myself without apology.

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