Her intestines have been tied into bows 

By the twisted ways of Poseidon. 

 

They decorate her like we do the dead,

And she is a skeleton waiting for dressing. 

 

Cries of the Me Too movement send termites

Scrambling in both ears

 

Because she too knows the taste 

Of the poison that is sexual abuse. 

 

Forced to down the crimson concoction,

She was left for dead at his bed. 

 

Thirsty for help, she cried “Me too”, 

But as she clattered her drying jaws, 

 

Her teeth fell like dominos, and again,

She fell down the hole of silence. 

 

It’s a grave dug by the oppressors. 

The abusers have full control of the people. 

 

Meanwhile, the abused are left in their piles

Of bones left scrambling at our feet. 

 

Poseidon, I look through your third and fourth ribs

Like blinds and see emptiness in the sky. 

 

You have no beating heart in your chest, 

But why did you insist on stealing hers?

 

 

You stole her love, and you stole her life. 

And today, women continue to fight to survive. 

 

Why are we still dragged to the underworld

Of sexual abuse and toxic masculinity?

 

I couldn’t look into her eyes before they were cursed,

And now they’ve been pecked out entirely

 

By the vultures that circle the murky pool

of victim blaming and rotting ignorance. 

 

Now as her skin shrivels like ribbon

And her blood dries like sweet perfume,

 

The graveyard of Me Too continues

To erect more headstones of sexual abuse.

 

These monuments of pain and finally death

Are enough to make even Medusa turn to stone.