Was it the dress,
or was it the scarf?
Perhaps those shorts that hugged too high,
or that strapless top with rhinestones.
Maybe a twinkle in your eye or a polite smile.
Or the seductive rouge on your cheeks,
and the curve of your collarbone.
The diamond earrings, perhaps?
A pair of heels clicking against the cobblestone?
The condensation sliding down the glass?
Or was it the keys between your fingers,
prepared for a fight
in the dead of night.
On your walk home,
when you were innocent,
when your feet ached, blistered and sore from high heels.
When you said no,
and he ignored you.
Silence.
You tuned out the world.
Space, time, imagery became nothing but an idea,
hidden until the nightmare was over.
But did the nightmare end?
No.
There was shame and guilt,
a cage was built.
To keep you from speaking.
What did I do?
Was my dress too short?
Did I play the fool,
or is the world just cruel?
There are always questions about
Shorts, skirts, drugs, illicit behaviour.
Drunk consent, sober consent.
Never about the knife or gun,
or the blood on the cement.
They will question why you never spoke
about the trauma you revoked.
You hid the pain and carried it forth,
waiting.
Waiting for someone to understand the silence.
The reasons why you never spoke.
Trauma, fear, inequality, shame,
invoked by the home we call society.
So who's really to blame?
Not the silence that coated your bones.
