The Proof I See

What about the proof I see?

What about the proof I breathe?

What about the proof I still feel

on my body —

where he touched me?

Tell me, how much proof do you need?

Do you need to see to believe?

Come in, grab a seat,

I’ll keep my cries down so that you and my abuser can speak.

Let me know what story he feeds,

Let him tell you that it was me,

who caused this —

asked for it —

Can’t you see?

“How is he to resist a beauty like me?”

Take down your notes,

crucial info for your personal investigation,

— into the value of my word.

How late was she out?

How many drinks down?

What did she have on?

Did she lead him along?

Because one must measure,

whether,

she asked for it.

Because that’s how you see rape —

something she can ask for

— like that’s not a blatant contradiction.

You’ve heard me say I gave no vocal consent,

And you question if something else did —

my attire, my choices,

But only my voice can speak for me.

Why is the narrative power,

given to him — ’cause he’s He.

Why does he get to take,

because he likes what he sees?

What about me?

I said no.

What about me?