The gilded moonlight she shines so softly in…can perhaps turn out to be the light ever so bright that it burns through her. That golden might be a mask of yellow that mixed with all the reds and the browns she tried to hide.
But nevertheless, nobody shall ever realise; for she is the gilded lily.
But nevertheless, nobody cries when she says she hears the silence. They simply hear it too, they say.
But nevertheless, when her body turns into a canvas, nobody shall dare to speak up. They simply admire her clothes for they are oblivious to the red she bleeds behind them.
This poem, is about a survivor. A sexual assault survivor to be more specific. It’s an ode to the little girls who fought across the border with 78 DNA’s imprinted on her, to the women who fear to be out after 2 a.m. and the ones who bleed their voices but society fails to address it.
We hear you.
