There was a time I hadn't met eyes with you.

Starry it was before and simply galaxies after.

You begin to realize love is a home, no longer a word or two syllables.

The shy kiss, the blurting of I love you.

Being the voice when the other cannot speak.

Tears & sobs catching at the hinges of swollen throats when you both know it is time to let go.

And let go as we may, but I'll hold on to what we have made.

Remember, we are the grand-daughters of the witches they couldn't *burn.

What if flowers bloom in fire & glass-jars?

Perhaps, in muted sunshine, melding with peaks of incandescence & fire-flies, something indestructible will be left.

I write to breathe a l i t t le easier.

Black ink adorns the nook and cranny of my fingertips, hugging even harder upon once-blank pages.

I try to exhale out the thoughts of meaness, madness and spice from this warm body.

To keep a smidgin, a flutter of innocence from a different time & place.

Most importantly, those 10:51pm, 3:22am thoughts written onto paper is a nudge of a reminder: Sleep. Sleep better.

You forgot to pull out the blunt knife you put in her left shoulder-blade.

She's not all sharp edges, rusted metal & stale blood that you hoped for.
She's all more than that.
She is *alive.

You absolutely do not get the honor of burning a numerical value on her self-worth.

You certainly do not get to measure that assumption from the hem-line tailored on her thighs. Or the daring dresses she wore because it made her feel a different kind of beautiful.

She is not asking for it. What she will demand for is neither your attention nor stares. She wants respect.
Can you do that?

Oh, and when you are emboldened by your 'witty' validation that she  is a ‘****’ or of promiscuous nature, all down to the clothes she wears on her back.

Don’t.

Cotton stitches against warm skin. (She was enjoying a walk.)

Silk swathes on slightly chilled bones. (She forgot her jacket on a Wednesday night out with friends.)

Thick knits adorn even more layers of cotton. (It was a winter night.)

Their cold lips pursed by the late hour, scream silence.

With that validation, you normalise and excuse the acts of ****, soul-destructing ****** offences.
For you have blamed the victim.

You excuse a depraved psychological state.

The veins that choked from ice and no’s. You have forgotten.

Rapists and ****** offenders do not get the luxury of being excused.

Neither do you, ****.