She had to reach inside herself and pull out pine needles. They stuck to her inner thighs, where his fingers had first grazed, trailing up. The lights in a police station post-**** are jarring.
She looked through slitted eyes and faced a dumpster staring back, her mouth reeking of stale beer and blood.
The cool infinity of last night loops into a tightly-knotted ribbon of forever, a graveyard of bruised hips and phantom touches.
When the story stretched wider than the picturesque Stanford campus, ivy-covered walls that distract from dark dumpsters, a news anchor gave the viewers vital facts: “Brock Turner’s freestyle time is one minute and thirty-nine seconds.”
No media could be bothered to discuss the humiliation of getting a **** kit. No one bothered to mention how helpless it is being too drunk and resigned to walk, naked, body like a rag doll left rotting with banana peels.
The world stepped over a ***** girl to defend a white boy, to bail out a monster, all the while wondering where the blood on their shoes could have come from.
She could still hear the music, a steady beat in spite of it all, ear pressed soundly into the pavement.