she wanted to look sexy,
so she put on a cherry red mini skirt,
with flesh-colored pantyhose,
a black halter top with tiny sparkles on it.
the shoes she chose were ruby and high-heeled.
she walked with a confident strut,
her attractive head up high,
her shoulders back, chest forward,
a visible S curve pattern went down her back,
her butt raised high and alarming.
she went this way down to the club.

her blood danced along with the loud bass,
her arms swayed and flowed to the slowest songs,
her legs stomped and tapped the night away.
she was carefree.

she left the club at 2’oclock, with a tired smile on her face –
a content tired, her day and her brain
filled with fun exhaustion.
a man with broad shoulders went up to her
and tapped her shoulder, saying,
“excuse me miss, need a ride?”
“oh no thank you sir, i’m fine.”

she remembered the time her mother told her
never talk to strangers when she was five years old,
just a little girl, unaware of the evil that surrounded her.
he stood there, looking at her, playing with her image
in his dark, dark mind, so dark and pitch black.
he knew what he wanted and he wanted it now.
she felt his eyes like darts on her back,
and she was the target, the bullseye.

the next scene was all a blur – a grab from behind,
heavy grip around her waist, rough-skinned hands on her lips,
screams of help muffled and the strong smell of vodka.
unconsciousness followed and her brain floated
in outer space, lost and missing forever.

the next morning, she woke up alone,
her panties soaked in red blood,
while her eyes cried clear blood.
several patches on her soft breasts,
purple spots between her legs –
were they even hers anymore?
she was confused, bewildered, how could this happen?
it was supposed to be a night of freedom, of enjoyment,
of pure bliss and happiness.
three beeps of 9-1-1, “hello, I was raped”
“where are you?”
“i’m not sure, in an alley somewhere.”

they asked for her whereabouts, and she sobbed
unaware of her surroundings, where am i? how could this happen?
they questioned her repeatedly, until her eyes found the street name,
the name that will forever be stuck inside her.
the help came and saw her sitting in the alley,
in her redness and blackness, and now her purpleness,
her hair dirty and tangled, her face puffy and swollen.
their eyes looked her up and down, first in pity,
then a strong aversion.
no one said it, but all their callous minds thought it.
“no wonder she was raped. look at her.”
“probably a prostitute.”
“good thing my daughter is not like her.”
“that’s what you get for sleeping around.”
her whole being was criticized and minimized to the word
slut,
all because of one man’s mistake, one man’s own crime
this unknown man who took her life away,
the fearless days, the uninterrupted nights.
he brought nightmares into her,
terrifying dreams that will haunt her forever.
meanwhile, the public was harsh
and blamed the victim,
the slut of a victim,
because women who dress provocatively and get raped
must be asking for it! they’re so thirsty! so needy
of attention,and thick cocks deep inside them,
because after all, that’s why they dress up, right?

ignorance is lack of knowledge,
and the minds of people lack knowledge,
as judgmental thoughts run through their brains,
and sneering hatred flows through their veins.
who will speak out about
the continuous victimization of raped and abused women?
who will speak loud over
the ashamed whispers, the empty empathies?
i know,
that i refuse to even hesitate to clear my throat,
but instead yell loud, right away,
tell people to be human beings
and end the nonstop victim blaming and slut shaming
that is running rampant in this world.