I write in honor of the cry against femicide right now in Kenya.
I was doing my rounds as usual,
Rounds through my Instagram feed—
Then I met bloodied panties,
Her whites, stained red.
With my bleeding heart,
I thought of her pain, her tears,
As he made the tear.
Her “stop” met his grunts,
He knew not of entry denied.
With every vile thrust,
He tainted her soul.
Once his “mission” was accomplished,
Balls emptied like his brains,
He leads her to the bathroom—
His grotesque version of aftercare:
Wash the stains away!
I still think of her stinging pain,
The echo of her cries,
Her soul, forever stained
It had been stolen,
Given away to a predator,
A dunce, thick-headed and vile.
I think of her thoughts:
Did it dawn on her
That she had been defiled?
Taking responsibility? He knew not.
“It was a drive,” he said,
“An urge I couldn’t stop.”
He blamed his addiction,
His appetite to kill,
To kill her white.
I thought again,
Of the statistics—1 in 3.
One in three have been stained
By those closest,
The ones they once trusted.
And when we say,
“Stop the rape, kill her not,”
They digress.
They defend.
“But why was her dress short?”
“Men can’t control themselves.”
They care not that the 1 in three
Could be their own,
And so, what hope remains?
When blame clings to her,
When her “no” is drowned by their excuses.
All we can do is curse:
May their manhood forever be limp.
Consume them in your wrath
They are after our blood
We offer them as burnt sacrifices
And still,
We carry the stains of their sin.