I call you forward to witness thee,
The nightmare, crimson reality,
Red soaked sheets,
A story of once an innocence, now is gone,
Torn away from my flesh,
I ask you this, where is my choice in all of this,
I have had snatched what is mine, robbed, I seek justice but there is no answer.

My cries, cries fall on silent ears,
Through the years, my cries are also now silen-ced,
I have become a story to myself,
When I now tell of my tragedy, I don't cry
Nor do I give that bitter, characteristic laugh,
I look hollow and stare hollow and feel hollow.

… People think that I’m shallow.
I am fine with that,
When has it ever been my choice?
I cry and scream and no- one helps, and passers-by snigger as they go.
...’’She got what she deserved, she had asked for it, what, dressed like that!’’
‘’She should thank her stars, that someone wants her anyway!’’

After all, ‘**** is a kind of... love.’

That’s part of the irony…

I don't feel that loved.      

- Felinely, Aisha.

It would be much too dangerous to talk about
Or remember at all
That night

A piercing scream from behind
A clatter of fallen crockery on the floor
Crimson fills the apron she wore
I do not yet think to ask how or why
My heart beats a silent cry
I kneel beside to feel her warmth
All I feel are empty eyes slice into my soul

My eyes look over the pool of red
Gathered by the drops her body shed
But for the blood, she can be lost in dreams
I think, as I imagine her pale in peace
Grabbing a mop
I cleanse her of the damaging dye
Her body now remains uncoloured, untainted
Of that which still inflames her quintessence
She's been marked, I realise
In an irreparable scarlet
All action, all words- scattered on the tiles
Lying broken and futile