ENOUGH: Hold Your Breath Up To The Mirror and Draw Yourself a New Face
I wish you didn’t have to climb onto the light fixture like a revenant, / watch his fingers probe someone glued to the ground, her eyes a fist.
ENOUGH
171 posts
ENOUGH is a Rumpus original series devoted to creating a dedicated space for essays, poetry, fiction, comics, and artwork by women and nonbinary people that engage with rape culture, sexual assault, and domestic violence. We believe that while this subject matter is especially timely now, it is also timeless. We want to make sure that this conversation doesn’t stop—not until our laws and societal norms reflect real change.
ENOUGH: Words as the Way: Rediscovering my Sister and Myself Forty Years After Her Assault
No one talked about what had happened to her. No one, at least in my hearing, asked her what she needed. What she wanted. Including me.
ENOUGH: Tracing the Sheets
He lived in the house behind us. We lived in a duplex on Second Street in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania—a small town. I always thought it was the hugest, coolest house ever.…
ENOUGH: Three Poems by Tenika Stallings
"On the Other Side of the Door," "Left for Dead," "The Double Cross"
ENOUGH: Power Dome
Women just need to live / inside a geodesic dome / powered by male rage; / the angrier they get / the safer we’ll be
ENOUGH: Three Poems
"Not all Men" / Except for the one that followed / Me down every Publix aisle, / To the bakery, to the register, / & waited for me in the lot.
ENOUGH: Landlines
Before my father killed her, my mother spent her evenings telling me the story of how she came to America. Every night, the way she started was with something new.
ENOUGH: Raag Marwa
To wake to the sound of Marwa seeping through the bowl of a sarod / That rests over the limbs of a woman in the balcony—or not. / To follow the melody across rooms, beyond the descending sun, /. Into the kitchen—or not. A call and response—or not.
ENOUGH: ’Til Death
Rape stories are like weddings—everyone thinks theirs is remarkable, but they are usually disarmingly, eye-glazingly indistinguishable.
Enough: Incandescent
I can see your mouth moving, a monologue of mock misery meant to quiet me, accelerating your tears for your finishing act. But all I hear is the roar of my own voice, the unholy screech, the gravel of my throat grinding against itself, finding its traction.