I heard some awful sounds in my apartment. I could of called the police but I didn't.
The most painful falling down the stairs is a drugged girl being screamed at, “Bitch! Whore! Walk the fuck up the stairs!”
I was tucked that night in bed by the wall which gave sound to the hallway of 4 or 5 guys yelling belligerently and she didn’t make a sound except for the thudding and tumble of falling down the stairs.
One hushed, cursed and after fierce struggle they hoisted her up the stairs.
I asked you to go outside
But you sleepily replied
so I reluctantly went back to bed
But now in the morning I can’t help but wonder what happened to the girl who could barely walk, who they called a whore, who was probably raped by 4 or 5 guys, head pounding, mascara running and could I have prevented the psychological trauma she’ll suffer for the rest of her life?
I think I could have.
So I’m welcoming this pain of guilt, that sticks up and between the joining of my lungs so I can remember next time I hear those sounds. Those clear warning bells of RAPE that I'll overcome the response of my comatose lover and stand by the woman who’s been cursed by her beauty, whose body is a threat and a liability, a tender blossom pried open and left in crumpled pieces. Careless and selfish are those men who abused her. They should be click, click, click,