Me Too.
Me too.
And me.
And them.
And you.
Believe us, hear us, see us, it’s true.
These people assigning victim status,
Deciding which crime is perfect and looking for complicity,
It’s shitty how many tines we have to say it,
When we know you always knew.
The hand on the leg, the pretend smiles,
The staying a while and pleading for rescue,
The being quiet or get shouted down,
Or “Why didn’t you say something?
Why did you wait til now?
Of course it’s the perpetrator who’ll be punished.
Not you.
Never you.
Victim blaming’s a myth, it’s not true.”
This idea of being punished isn’t new.
Medusa was a myth, do you know her story?
How Perseus stayed that monster for glory?
Did you know she wasn’t consenting?
Was hiding in a temple from someone who meant only harm?
How she was punished for being raped in that sanctuary?
Was made in to a monster with petrifying eyes as punishment for her own violation?
It might not be true,
Could just be a legend.
But how can you say this is new?
That it’s pretend?
When for centuries it’s our fault,
When we’re quiet, when we shout.
When we stand tall,
When we rise,
When we fall.
We’re done taking the blame,
Being drowned in shame,
And together we stand,
Holding hands with Medusa,
And you should be petrified,
As together we rise,
And as one we will look you in the eyes and say:
“Me too”.
Todays #Inktober poem. I think the inspiration is obvious. If it resonates, please share.
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