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The closest I’ve ever been to a crime scene is the stairwell where I had my body ripped in two
(my mind still wanders there, sifting for clues).
Your Honour- I introduce Exhibit A:
Torn underwear, a bruised pelvis and a mouth full of silence
In a plastic bag for the ladies and gentlemen of the jury.
To the Defence: look into my eyes and tell me I’m lying- please,
Because I can’t process the clockwork murder that man made of my own body.
I carry hot pink pepper spray like lipstick-
does that prove fear for you?
Is the fact that I can’t eat without throwing up indication enough for the horrors I endured?
Will you please protect me?
Because I can’t sleep anymore.
I can’t eat anymore.
I lost myself to him.
Exhibit B: let the jury read a phone full of messages,
Coerced consent,
“I’ll leave you if you don’t do this”, he said.
My mother asks me what I stayed for and all I can muster is a croaky
“I loved him, mama”
Ladies and gentlemen-
Won’t you pry inside me like he did?
Follow me down the tunnel he dug between my legs?
Believe me when I say I am terrified.
Icy blue eyes,
Claws for hands and
Lips that shushed me when I screamed.
Exhibit C: I offer me.
Can’t you see my body is a funeral pyre now?
Can’t you see that this is the scene of the crime?
How humiliating this process is.
How it makes me wish I never said anything at all.