I walk to my car with my keys between my knuckles and my head on a swivel any time I pass a bush.

Safe and sound at home an internet pop up tries to sell me a subscription to a rape fantasy website.

And I wonder if either of us understands what that word means. Fantasy.

I fantasize about not being afraid to tell a date I live alone.

I fantasize about not being worried when I call a plumber and a strange man shows up at my door.

I fantasize about falling in love with a man who always makes sure I feel safe.

I fantasize about a man willing to shoulder the weight of my trust; to push my boundaries and listen when I find one I won’t cross.

I fantasize about laying myself at his feet; blinded, deafened, or bound, and knowing that neither of us will feel ashamed the next morning.

I fantasize about looking in the mirror and seeing the marks he left on my skin and my soul and smiling fondly at the memories.

I fantasize about my erotic desires not being sullied by a romanticized portrait of the assault on others.

I fantasize about a day that someone doesn’t try to sell me my nightmare packaged as a fairytale.

But for now I carry my keys between my knuckles and walk alone.