Hey, did you hear the news?
Some xyz girl from abc town—
Ravaged.
By a pack of hounds.
They dragged her to their den,
howled as she swallowed her cries,
took their fill as her body was torn.

Hmm, I see.
I pity her fate. I pity her kin.
But why spill this sorrow at my feet?
She was not my sister, not my mother,
not the moon that hangs in my sky.
So tell me—
why should I let her pain stain my hands?

Because silence, too, is a stain.
She was someone’s daughter. Someone’s dream.
More than that—
She was someone.

She was a river of laughter before it ran dry,
more than a name on the wind,
more than a passing grief.
And yet you turn away—
as if the sky did not crack when she screamed.

Then what?
What do you expect me to do?
Shall I strip the skin from their hands,
etch her pain into their bones,
make them taste the ruin they have sown?

Shall I break them, one by one,
starve them in the streets,
shove jagged steel in their ****—
and make them bleed,
until their breath is nothing but regret?

Tell me, what justice can I bring—
when I am just as weak as she?

No. Not weak.
Just as convicted as those hounds.
Not by touch—but by silence.
Not by deed—but by desire.
You watch the fire swallow homes,
yet curse only the rising smoke.

Oh? So now you carve my name into the crime?
You say I wear the same monstrous face?
Then bid me—
which of my sins does she embrace?

Do you not smirk when men murmur,
"If she wears a dress like that, she is asking for it"?
Do your eyes not feast on a girl’s *****
like vultures circling fresh flesh?
Do you not crave her behind
as she treks down the alley?

There is no ocean between you and them—
only a breath, only a hesitation.
They take—
You want.
Both breathe the same.
Both kneel before the altar forged in lust.

You wish to cleanse the world of beasts,
yet turn away from your own reflection.
Punishment will not unwrite her screams.
Will not stitch the night back together.

So hush your hunger. Steady your hands.
Let desire sit like an old dog at your feet.
Let your breath lose its bite.
Let your gaze learn the art of mercy.

For when we do not lust,
when we do not leer—
Tell me, who will our women fear?