You grin and bear the humiliation, devastation already tearing, leaving raw strips behind your ribs. Ribbons remain where your heart should be beating, remnants reaching and coiling around your neck, both helping and torturing, and somehow holding you together.

Together.

People say you are holding it together, however within there is not a single thing that is left unbroken. Unspoken misery clings to the wings of your eyes, ‘Lies, she lies!’ is what was spoken, is what they cried, while you cried during the climax of night, away from their scathing eyes.

‘It wasn’t your fault’, is what they should say, but instead it’s claims that you’re an adult and should have known better than to dress that way. Should have known better than to walk that way. Probably paid just to say you didn’t want him to touch you that way.

You let him do it, that’s what he’ll say.

You weren’t his first choice, that, he did say.

Your flesh crawls and your mind makes walls to block the jeering, violent calls of those that believe and support all his claims, and once again the victim is blamed. Again and again we see the nature of this ridiculous culture, and he escapes because of his fame.

Fame.

This is the power of his fame, this sickening game where the victim is blamed but you’re adamant you are not going to play. He had his way before, not now. Not now. Not now, is what you hoped for as he grasped at more power to bring to the fore.

Then the time came.

It’s like that day, all over again.

Under his thumb, under your skin, under the skirt of the country you adore, he’s reached and grabbed it. It’s his to explore. The ribbons tighten and you can’t breathe anymore.

This time it’s worse, it’s worse than before

Because there is not justice for you or for her

Because now, and for the next four years, you and your sisters must call him Mister President, sir.