Singer-songwriter Halsey turned up for her second Women’s March in New York on Saturday, one year after showing up to the Washington, D.C., event that drew a crowd noticeably larger than the group that turned out for President Donald Trump’s inauguration day.
The 23-year-old was joined by thousands near the city’s Central Park and helped kick off the event with a raw and impassioned poem about her personal experiences with sexual violence.
“This was really hard for me to do,” she wrote in a tweet afterwards, “but I’m glad I did it.”
Give it a listen above and read the whole thing below.
It’s 2009,
And I’m 14 and I’m crying.
Not really sure where I am,
But I’m holding the hand
Of my best friend Sam
In the waiting room
Of a Planned Parenthood.
The air is sterile and clean,
And the walls are that “not grey, but green,”
And the lights are so bright,
They could burn a hole
Through the seam of my jeans,
And my phone is buzzing in the pocket.
My mom is asking me
If I remembered my keys
’cause she’s closing the door
And she needs to lock it.
But I can’t tell my mom where I’ve gone.
I can’t tell anyone at all.
See, my best friend Sam
Was raped by a man
That we knew ’cause he worked
In the after-school program.
And he held her down
With her textbooks beside her
And he covered her mouth
And he came inside her.
So now I’m with Sam
At the place with a plan
Waiting for the results of a medical exam,
And she’s praying she doesn’t need an abortion.
She couldn’t afford it,
And her parents would, like,
Totally kill her.
It’s 2002,
And my family just moved,
And the only people I know
Are my mom’s friend Sue and her son.
He’s got a case of Matchbox cars,
And he says that he’ll teach me guitar
If I just keep quiet.
And the stairwell beside
Apartment 1245
Will haunt me in my sleep
For as long as I am alive.
And I’m too young to know
Why it aches in my thighs,
But I must lie.
I must lie.
It’s 2012,
And I’m dating a guy,
And I sleep in his bed,
And I just learned how to drive,
And he’s older than me,
And he drinks whiskey neat,
And he’s paying for everything ―
This adult thing is not cheap.
We’ve been fighting a lot,
Almost 10 times a week,
And he wants to have sex,
And I just want to sleep.
But he says I can’t say no to him ―
This much I owe to him ―
He buys my dinners,
So I have to blow him.
He’s taken to forcing me
Down on my knees,
And I’m confused
Because he’s hurting me
While he says “please.”
And he’s only a man,
And these things he just needs,
He’s my boyfriend ―
So why am I filled with unease?
It’s 2017,
And I live like a queen,
And I follow damn near
Every one of my dreams.
I’m invincible ―
And I’m so fucking naive.
I believe I’m protected
’Cause I live on a screen.
Nobody would dare
Act that way around me.
I’ve earned my protection.
I’m eternally clean.
Until a man that I trust
Gets his hands in my pants,
But I don’t want none of that ―
I just want to dance.
I wake up the next morning
Like I’m in a trance
And there’s blood.
Is that my blood?
Hold, hold on a minute.
See, I’ve worked every day
Since I was 18.
I’ve toured everywhere
From Japan to Mar-a-Lago
I even went on stage
That night in Chicago
When I was having a miscarriage.
I mean, I pied the piper
I put on a diaper
And I sang out my spleen
To a room full of teens.
What do you mean?
This happened to me.
You can’t put your hands on me.
You don’t know
What my body has been through.
I’m supposed to be safe now.
I earned it.
It’s 2018,
And I’ve realized
That nobody is safe
Long as she is alive.
And every friend that I know
Has a story like mine,
And the world tells me
We should take it as a compliment.
But then heroes like Ashley
And Simone and Gabby,
McKayla and Gaga,
Rosario, Ally,
Remind me this is the beginning ―
It is not the finale.
And that’s why we’re here,
And that’s why we rally.
It’s Olympians
And a medical resident,
And not one fucking word
From the man who is president.
It’s about closed doors and secrets
And legs in stilettos,
From the Hollywood hills
To the projects and ghettos,
When babies are ripped
From the arms of teen mothers,
And child brides cry, globally,
Under the covers,
Who don’t have a voice
On the magazine covers.
They tell us “take cover.”
But we are not free
Until all of us are free.
So love your neighbor,
Please treat her kindly.
Ask her her story,
And then shut up and listen.
Black, Asian, poor, wealthy,
Trans, cis, Muslim, Christian,
Listen, listen.
And then yell ―
At the top of your lungs ―
Be a voice for all those
Who have prisoner tongues,
For the people who had to grow up
Way too young.
There is work to be done.
There are songs to be sung.
Lord knows, there’s a war to be won.