Even in my most intimate moments with a man, I am alone.

— Maggie Georgiana Young

From my first stab at second base, I became obsessively concerned for my vaginal upkeep. I began shaving the day after I felt my first tongue down my throat. The first buzz was a disaster, causing horrifically itchy dull razor breakout that made me look like I made love to a poison ivy bush. Whenever I thought there was a chance of unveiling my privates, I smothered every breakout with the same foundation I used for the occasional teenage acne face breakouts.

— Maggie Georgiana Young

I always imagined rape as this violent scene of a woman walking alone down a dark alley and getting mugged and beaten by some masked criminal. Rape was an angry man forcing himself inside a damsel in distress. I would not carry the trauma of a cliché rape victim. I would not shriek in the midst of my slumber with night terrors. Furthermore, I would not tremble at the sight of every dark haired man or the mention of Number 1’s name. Furthermore, I would not even harbor ill will towards him. My damage was like a cigarette addiction-subtle, seemingly innocent, but everlasting and inevitably detrimental. Number 1 never opened his screen door to furious crowds waving torches and baseball bats. Nobody punched him out in my honor. The Nightfall crowd never socially ostracized him. Even the ex-boyfriend who’d second handed fused the entire fiasco continued to mingle with him in drug circles. Everybody continued with business as usual. And when I told my parents I lost my virginity against my will, unconscious on a bathroom floor, Carl did not erupt in fury and demand I give him all I knew about his whereabouts so he could greet him with a rifle. Mom blankly shrugged and mumbled, “Oh, that’s too bad,” and drifted into the kitchen as if I’d received a stubbed toe rather than a shredded hymen. Everyone in my life took my rape as lightly as a brief thunderstorm that might have been frightening when it happened, but was easy to forget about. I adopted that mentality as the foundation of my sex life. I would, time and time again, treat sex as flimsily as it started. Furthermore, I would give it away as if it was cheap, second hand junk, rather than a prize that deserved to be earned.

— Maggie Georgiana Young

I am done looking for love where it doesn’t exist. I am done coughing up dust in attempts to drink from dry wells.

— Maggie Georgiana Young

I became a feminist upon the realization that, whether physical, mental, or emotional, everything involved in obtaining love and approval from men required some form of self-mutilation.

— Maggie Georgiana Young

I fell in love with a sniper - a man whose basic training instills psychopathic tendencies. I loved a professional dehumanized. Furthermore, I loved a man who lived in a world where empathy was suicide. Furthermore, I loved a man who had to be ready to put a bullet through a toddler’s skull if necessary. Furthermore, I loved a man highly skilled in burying his emotions, resurrecting them if and when he chose. Furthermore, I loved a man who saw me as his enemy. Furthermore, I loved a man I was disposable to.

— Maggie Georgiana Young

I grew up missing my mom while she was right in front of me.

— Maggie Georgiana Young

I milked my typical persona as a gritty, intellectual sex-positive feminist that men loved to conquer, toss aside, and shove into their conquest collection in the dusty backs of their closets.

— Maggie Georgiana Young

I’m pretty sure Number 1 wasn’t even aware that he was using a man’s deadliest weapon against women. He exposed his vulnerability. Over the years, I would repeat a pattern of chronically caving to that same behavior. It didn’t matter whether I liked or respected him. Every time he dared to let his guard down and unveil some of his ugliest, grittiest faces, I wholeheartedly believed I was the only person on earth being let in on a secret. It was a mirage of a connection. Despite his faults and my prior resistance, I felt an obligation to uphold that bond. No matter what kind of person he was or how toxic he could have been, I saw beauty in that fleeting defenselessness as if he were an infant, innocent and untainted by the evils of the world. I always fell in love with that face in every man. I clutched that memory tightly, despite the fact that its weight wore my arms and drug my pace. Furthermore, I was so focused on remembering their moment of weakness that I was blind to who they normally were.

— Maggie Georgiana Young

Incarceration is when nobody writes a happy ending for a woman without a man.

— Maggie Georgiana Young