I know that so often in cases like this, the poem would be written
directly to the victim, a eulogy, you could say. Because yes, contrary
to your popular beliefs, sometimes being raped is worse than being dead.
But no, this poem will not be written to the 16-year-old girl
whose life you ruined, whose shorts you tore off like the dress
on a flimsy paper doll, whose legs you spread apart and violated.
This poem
will be written directly to both of you.
One in three women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetimes.
One in six will be raped. So let me tell you something, Trent;
let me tell you something, Ma’lik:
if your mother were sitting at the dinner table, passing the mashed potatoes
and gravy, sitting there with five other women,
she would be one in six. Your mothers, your mothers,
they would be one in six. They would be one in three.
And no, this is not an elegy; this is a goddamn siren song.
Girls are taught that a price tag is put on their virginity, on their self-worth,
and at any given moment, that tag can be ripped off
and their virginity or self-worth can be auctioned off
to the highest bidder.
You two were the highest bidders.
You stood up there, on the auction block, and you shouted
monetary values until you hit the highest mark.
And no, Trent, don’t you start telling me about how she was drunk,
her shorts were too short, she was asking for it, she liked it.
Oh no. I will not allow you to pin this blame on her, to take this blame
and wield it like a sword and stick it in this girl’s stomach.
You take the blame. You take the blame, Ma’lik. You take the blame,
both of you. You take that blame like a fucking prize
and pin it on your own globe, like most people do
with all the places they’ve traveled.
You wear that blame like a badge, you attach it to your shirt,
and you wear it for the rest of your life, because the entire world
deserves to know what you did.
That blame is yours,
not hers.