Dear Tom,

Dear Tom,

How are you? I actually don’t care, but I’m uncontrollably and inconsolably upset today, and you’re the reason why thanks for asking.

You, Tom, are a pseudo-“woke” privileged, tech-dude rapist, who is no better than Brock Turner or Brett Kavanaugh.

You knew what you did was wrong. And if you say you didn’t, you must think I’m stupid.

When someone is so drunk they puke, it’s game over. I know that you know that I did not want to have sex that night. You knew that.

Regina taught you better than that.

24 years on this earth should’ve taught you better than that.

I’ll never forget that morning as I was coming back to reality in the early hours of the morning, I felt like I was hit by a train – I was lying on your sheets, startled when I realized that they were soaked with my blood. You were holding me like someone who cares about someone would, and then you said in a scratchy morning voice, “I can’t believe you convinced me to fuck you.”

I hadn’t even realized at that point that I had sex. But I soon realized I did not have sex, you had sex with me. You tricked me, you used me, and you’ve broken a part of my spirit. My spirit and my enthusiasm are the sparkliest things about me, and you broke a part of it, and honestly, I hope you feel shitty about that.

I was poked and prodded in an uncomfortable hospital room having a doctor administer my rape kit as you were probably getting high and playing video games. Oh for your information, they found a tampon lodged extremely inside of me, a physical sign that I did not consent to what you did to me.

I cried and screamed at night feeling trapped in a physical shell that is my body, while you probably swiped aimlessly on tinder for a girl to trick and use.

A year and a half later, I’m still picking up the pieces and fighting back tears at work, while you’re probably at the kurig machine and shooting the shit, talking about weekend plans with Greg who works with you in IT. Fuck you, dude.

The thought of you makes me cry. You haunt my thoughts and continue to take so much from me that you don’t even know.

You’re the worst because you think listening to Angel Olsen, living in Bushwick and donating to Planned Parenthood here and there make you a “good person,” when truly, you’re an inauthentic liar and rapist.

I’m working on forgiving you someday for me, not for you. I’m not there yet.

I know you’ll never be able to fully understand how you’ve hurt me, and maybe you don’t care, but if at all you do, know that it really really really sucks and I hope you feel bad for being the monster that you are.

A very very sparkly person.

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