about what happened yesterday
(it was 21 years)
when I was six
(I am 27)
I type words and they appear on-screen
and I think that I am speaking
maybe the black on white conveys
the starkness of old wounds
because the past is always clear.
But I live in color and
old wounds reopen every day,
a nuance that needs shades of red and gray,
colors painted by vocal timbre.
My words are voiceless
what’s buried is still alive
and does anything capture the irony of rape so well
as no, stop
(she didn’t stop me)
(she asked for it)
Poem by Annie Jadin, speakingvoiceless.wordpress.com.
Written for the “Antithesis” prompt at dVerse.