There were lights, and music, and drinks,
and people were swaying and laughing.
I'm sure it was late and
the drinks made your insides feel warm and
you did not expect anything more than a party.
At some point your vision began to blur,
everything started to spin around you, about you, inside of you.
His voice may have been soft but it felt like knives upon your skin-
each whisper severing your frail skin.
You did not invite his hands.
You did not ask to be the surface he kissed,
You did not tell him to make love to you.
I'm sure it was late and it was getting dark outside.
I'm sure the dozens of other kids didn't notice
that as they sipped and laughed and discussed trivialties,
you were alone, a victim unable to cry for help,
but tell me, if you had been able to cry, would they have listened?
Somewhere inside this adolescent culture
children are losing their voices, because nobody cares what they say.
Victims are shamed, but perpetrators are forgotten,
and we wonder how the fuck this continues,
when we do not make an example of the attacker,
but we degrade the attacked.
How fucked up is that?
Because at some point the line between yes and no
has blurred into an infinite gray that states anything and everything is okay.
It's not okay, that there are young girls being drugged and raped
at the common house party.
It's not okay that this is not an isolated incident.
Because at some point, sexual assault became a normalcy
which scares me when I leave my house.
Because at some point I was taught to walk certain streets,
wear certain clothing, carry certain things to help protect myself
from the possible attacker lurking behind the corner.
Because in the world we live in, everyone could have been Jada.