Did you speak to him first? They ask, but I don’t hear.
Instead, inside my head, a heavy breathing near.
I imagine the grey walls blue, as I look at the floor,
fragrant as summer grass, cut down to its core.
How short? Another question, steadfastly ignored.
How can I answer when my voice has been torn?
A harsh melody of words,
Noiseless beneath the
Slap I hear. They ask about the dress.
Tell us, they say, and repeat how short?
But my mind is cloudy with questions. A thought,
drumming, pounding, circling slowly,
to abort or not abort?
To enter the white walls of the ‘murder house,’
where pro-life supporters can only hear
their own voices, and become
blind, to the
Slap. Haunting my conscious mind.
Now another, but did you fight?
Only those who understand this plight
had faces pressed to concrete in silent call
will know how quickly keys can fall,
make twinkling sounds,
sounds like stars you can see from the ground.
These faces, faceless. While moving lips,
wind round vowels,
words to diagnose. Finally crowned,
A Willing Victim.
Three hundredth this week.
Case closed. No more questions, or answers to seek.
And now years later, as stories spark,
one touch won’t strike fear into my heart.
As news channels gather their daily bread,
old wounds open and compassion is spread.
A young girl speaks bravely, if only she knew,
as I smile quietly, and whisper,
Original image by Rosie Case.