𝐔𝚴𝐃𝚬𝐑 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐊𝚰𝚴

𝐖𝚶𝐌𝐀𝚴 𝚰𝚴 𝐓𝚬𝐀𝐑𝐒

I saw a woman cry,
she struggled her way to the church
with knees scraping onto the dirty ground
just to ask the priest
to make her free of her tenderness.
Make her free of what man made of her.
She had sinned just by trusting a man.
He said
let
you
be free
of the spell
you casted upon yourself.

What was she wearing?
I held her while everything happened and what she was wearing should be the last of his issues.
If you so badly want to know
she wore a long tight white dress
that coloured of red;
she wore the hands of men she didn't know
the perfume of all their catcalls
bracelets and a necklace of their grips.

The first time I had went through it
the next day I wore a skirt
giving all the fault to the trousers I wore
but still I ripped myself apart
trying to figure out, why me?
I didn't tell anyone at first,
my lips were glued into a thin line
and my eyes observed quietly my thighs flinching every time she'd touch them.
Later on that year I couldn't function properly.
I still can't.

I once told a friend with a smile on my face,
it was pathetic how she didn't notice the pain in my eyes nor the shaking in my hands,
I guess we weren't real friends after all.
Another friend tried to describe his later on affection as tenderness towards me,
she said I knew he always liked you
and I think he still does.
While I still denied the fact I wrapped my arms around him, just to have a feel of my trauma.