The courthouse steps are scrubbed in white,
Marble gleaming in the light,
But underneath the polished stone
The rot has made itself at home.
The gavels fall with measured grace,
A theater of a lawful place,
Where wolves in suits and ties convene
To sanitize what’s obscene.
They shield the teeth, they trim the claws,
They draft immunity as laws,
Predators in tailored threads
Are crowned with titles, softly fed.
A whisper spreads: “She dressed that way.”As if the cloth could make them prey.
As if a hemline wrote consent,
As if a child’s confusion meant
They asked for hands they did not choose,
Or smiles that hid abusive ruse.
They blame the skirt, the laugh, the tone,
But never bones that should have known
That power is a loaded gun
And innocence can’t outrun
A system built to turn its gaze
From well-dressed men with well-paid praise.
Some walk free to write decrees,
To legislate hypocrisies,
Their signatures in ink still wet
While victims drown in quiet debt.
And outside, on the open street,
Metal hums in restless heat.
Policies like paper shields
In blood-warm classrooms, parking fields.
Maybe some just love their toys
The polished steel, the thunder noise.
Maybe it’s the bang they crave,
The myth of strong, the mask of brave.
But it takes one twitch, one breath, one spark
To turn a morning cold and dark,
One second’s pull, one burst of flame,
To etch forever someone’s name
Into a wall of candlelight
Where grief keeps vigil every night.
The laws shrug slow, the spokesmen sigh,
Statistics blur, the headlines dry.
And still the chorus, tried and true:
“What was she wearing? Who were you?”
As if the rot were not a choice,
But fashion’s fault, or someone’s voice.
So marble stands, and flags still wave,
And justice swears that it will save.
Yet in its shadow, sharp and vast,
The future’s stitched from horrors past.
A system built with blinded eyes
Still somehow sees what to despise
Not hands that harm, nor laws that fail,
But those too small, too poor, too frail.
And in that silence, thick and grim,
The scales are tipped, the lights are dim.
Not broken by mistake or flaw
But held that way, by careful law
Mar 2
Mar 2, 2026 at 1:29 AM UTC
The courthouse steps are scrubbed in white,
Marble gleaming in the light,
But underneath the polished stone
The rot has made itself at home.
The gavels fall with measured grace,
A theater of a lawful place,
Where wolves in suits and ties convene
To sanitize what’s obscene.
They shield the teeth, they trim the claws,
They draft immunity as laws,
Predators in tailored threads
Are crowned with titles, softly fed.
A whisper spreads: “She dressed that way.”As if the cloth could make them prey.
As if a hemline wrote consent,
As if a child’s confusion meant
They asked for hands they did not choose,
Or smiles that hid abusive ruse.
They blame the skirt, the laugh, the tone,
But never bones that should have known
That power is a loaded gun
And innocence can’t outrun
A system built to turn its gaze
From well-dressed men with well-paid praise.
Some walk free to write decrees,
To legislate hypocrisies,
Their signatures in ink still wet
While victims drown in quiet debt.
And outside, on the open street,
Metal hums in restless heat.
Policies like paper shields
In blood-warm classrooms, parking fields.
Maybe some just love their toys
The polished steel, the thunder noise.
Maybe it’s the bang they crave,
The myth of strong, the mask of brave.
But it takes one twitch, one breath, one spark
To turn a morning cold and dark,
One second’s pull, one burst of flame,
To etch forever someone’s name
Into a wall of candlelight
Where grief keeps vigil every night.
The laws shrug slow, the spokesmen sigh,
Statistics blur, the headlines dry.
And still the chorus, tried and true:
“What was she wearing? Who were you?”
As if the rot were not a choice,
But fashion’s fault, or someone’s voice.
So marble stands, and flags still wave,
And justice swears that it will save.
Yet in its shadow, sharp and vast,
The future’s stitched from horrors past.
A system built with blinded eyes
Still somehow sees what to despise
Not hands that harm, nor laws that fail,
But those too small, too poor, too frail.
And in that silence, thick and grim,
The scales are tipped, the lights are dim.
Not broken by mistake or flaw
But held that way, by careful law
Clothes can’t talk, certain necklines or dress lengths can’t “ask for it” and the only one saying this is people who benefit from this lie
