A Poem by Sophie Robinson
Author: Poetry Editor
October 16, 2017
This week, a poem by Sophie Robinson.
biggest loser
ok so stupid feelings
will take their hold
at this moment
& every. like the whole
time i say i’m anything but
angry i’m covering or feeling
sorry enough for you to pretend
i wasn’t
full of rage
from the beginning.
five years old a boy
touched my future cunt
i mean just some flesh
but i knew
he touched it & i thought a while
came into school & decided
no sir
him face down on a table
& me face to face
with my sad divorcing parents
getting told
i lacked discipline
& should stay quieter.
i’m twenty nine now &
since i was five i have been
sexually assaulted
many times
first time: bad boyfriend
in the woods
second time: bad boyfriend
in his room
third time: some boy
got his dick out
at the trocadero
millennium eve
forced my head
onto it
& i had lied
about where i was
& when i started
running i didn’t stop
until i was on the train
home & watched the fireworks
thru the window bursting
thru my chest quietly
minus a fistful
of hair.
fourth time: my drink
got spiked. fifth time: my drink
got spiked. sixth time: my drink
got spiked. seventh time: got
groped. eighth time: got groped.
ninth time: drink got spiked.
tenth: late & drunk & high & lost
two guys with hands
shoved up my skirt & thru
my tights & into my pants & in
there like really inside me
all my winter wasted
months on pills & they tore
my only coat & i was always cold.
eleventh time: a guy felt
me up at a bus stop
for a long time & i cried
& stayed still the whole
time he was doing it.
twelfth time: a guy felt me
up on the tube & i just felt
mild anger like almost
nothing. thirteenth time: a guy
put his hand between
my legs as i was walking
home from work & the police
drove me thru south london
to find the guy
but every guy was the guy
& nobody got lost
but me. fourteenth time:
a bar in stoke newington.
i was high on coke & new love
& in my best leather skirt.
i told him: don’t touch me
& he touched me again
& then i said i said
don’t touch me. he told me
to go fuck myself
& he smacked
me in the face
hard
with the back of his hand
& his ring cut
my cheek
& everyone there
more than 100 people
i guess
did nothing:
did not help
or act as witness
or stop anything
that happened.
i am up to number
twenty or so now
but i just really can’t
be bothered to tell you
any more about my times
as a boring or bored or hurt
person in that way
other than to say:
it did hurt
most of the time
& does
& i have not reached
the last time
this will happen
even nearly
& probably that bit
makes me feel
like i have lost
the most.
——
SOPHIE ROBINSON is a poet. She lives between London and Norwich, where she teaches Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia. She is the author of A and The Institute of Our Love in Disrepair. Recent work has appeared in n+1, The White Review, Poetry Review, The Brooklyn Rail and Ploughshares.
