I was lying down on an uncomfortable bed,
while a lady doctor was examining my bruises,
someone was whispering in my ear,
“It’s all going to be okay”
but, I knew
the pain between my legs,
blood gushing out of my vagina,
were a proof that
nothing will be ever okay.
I was scared.
I knew I had to speak up
I knew I had to make sure
that no other girl is a victim
to non-consensual sex,
to violence and abuse, domestic or not,
to being denied the right to pleasure.
But, I was scared.
What will the society say?
it’s your fault.
Why did you have to wear that short skirt
which makes you look like a slut?
And I believed it.
I believed that my favourite skirt
which makes me feel
confident and poised,
is the reason a man came inside me,
without my consent.
a girl should be modestly dressed,
because she is an object of desire
and the way I am clothed
decides who gets to use my body.
So the way I see it,
it’s not me, it is a piece of cloth,
which has a greater control over my body.
It is always our fault.
It is our clothes and not our words
which matter to those who dominate us.
And while, every cell in my body
wants to protest and shout at the top of my lungs
against non-consensual sex,
All I can do right now