Red Dress
There sits a girl alone on the bed.
There's shame and there's loss and a dress, so red.
And a spark, to an ember,
To a full flame of fury,
To a memory carried
Like a stone made of worries.
Can you see them now?
Now there's a burning, beautiful catharsis.
Now there's a light and there's a fight to end this.
The burden of proof and presumptions of innocence,
This need to protect him
And oh, this could ruin him,
Could spoil and destroy him
Like a bruise on the skin.
We're the ones writing this,
And cutting it out,
Draining the poison,
And calling it out.
Naming it for a gross toxicity,
That thing you call fiction and uphold,
The patriarchy.
Together we're smashing it,
Breaking glass ceilings and power-structure bullshit.
Holding hands, we rise,
And you will look us in the eyes,
As we burn down the systems,
Your automatic entry and price of admission.
We're ending the silence and ending the violence.
There sits a girl, alone on the bed,
With shame and with loss and a dress, so red.
But there's a million voices in chorus behind her,
Holding and healing and bleeding beside her,
Carrying her home on a wave of catharsis,
And never forget that we're the ones writing this.
[This piece may seem a bit more rough and ready, but it's a direct emotional reaction to this video - released today. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=juubxnkgnS8 Watch it for context then come back and read this again, and please thing about sharing the video or the poem (or both!) if they resonate.]
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