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.