What She Was Wearing
They pulled at her history like a thread and watched her unravel.
They asked what she was wearing— as if cotton could be culpable, as if a hemline had motive, as if fabric confesses what a man never will. They pulled at her history like a thread and watched her unravel— her past, her drinks, her dancing, the way she smiled at strangers, the hour she returned home. People deciding what her silence meant. Every yes she'd ever given dragged in as evidence of the yes she never gave. They said: are you sure? As if trauma keeps receipts. As if the body forgets what the mind tries to. As if she'd choose this. The pain, the betrayal, the wreckage, the doubt, the “friends” that couldn't look at her, then couldn't stop talking about her. He sat comfortably among them, as if nothing to answer for. The verdict written before the room went quiet. She was disbelieved, and yet he was spared. Here, the crime is hers because she remembers it. His excuses still outnumber her scars. She walked away carrying what no one would name— the weight of a story no one else would hold. While he carries on. Still, she told it. That is no small thing— That is everything he hoped she would never have the nerve to say. Thank you so much for being here! What She Said Publications Poem was originally published on Medium.com Author: Bee
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