The blur resolved into a chill
which stifled pain as would a weir,
as dread seeped past effects of pill
slipped into glass she’d had this year.
Dry-eyed, mascara was intact.
She’d seen to that before she left
the grinning face: the eyes which lacked
remorse, compassion … any depth.
She hadn’t taken any notes,
but merely dressed; cleaned up; escaped
and blocked out hateful “law” misquotes.
She simply stood and whispered “Raped”
Traumatised is but one word
which floated past her icy shell,
as plastic advocates adjured
that she recount her private hell.
Flayed by paper litany,
the wounds she’d stemmed began to bleed
in tears and sobs: like shifting scree
down to defile where terror breeds.
Shame scaled slope where none should browse:
an ibex at mountain salt-lick;
as uniforms infer “caroused”
from one red wine which made her sick.
Curtains pulled in warmth-less room.
When will it end? When will it…? When?
Tapestry on nightmare loom,
taut nerves are woven. Raped again.
Years on … but ordeal still fresh:
monster on parole – same city –
when badges, stuck in social crèche,
dilute all with Christmas ditty.
(Illustration: Indecisive sky by Perry McDaid)