She wears ink on her skin
And a short blue dress
As she dances the night away
With a drink in her hand.
She stumbles a bit
And leans on her friend
The hazy lights in the hallway
Make her head spin.
The world is a blur
And home is miles away
But promises of being taken care of
Are whispered in her ear.
As she waits in the car
Not a sliver of worry clouds her mind
For she is with a friend.
A trusted friend.
He thought he broke her soul that night.
The world said :
“Provocative clothes and too many drinks
That’s nothing but a tragedy waiting to happen.”
He showed no remorse.
Yet, no one asked the pertinent question "Why has consent become a thing of the past?
In which other crime is the victim blamed?”
But she was a fighter.
A raging survivor.
A glimmer of light she would find in the storm.
Not him, not the world could ever take her down.