Anecdotal evidence is everything.
One in six. One in forty. One in one.
Your statistics and methodology
mean nothing to me.
Left powerless and muted;
disassembled and left in pieces
by hands, mistrusted, distrusted hands.
My frog skin peeled,
insides laid open.
My organs on view.
To reveal his Illuminati secrets
means exposing my own guilt,
my culpability in every evil act
he ever committed, after me.
20 layers of guilt,
my own pain a lump
under it all.
No wonder I can't sleep.
I would be seen through a filter
of my own victimization.
Your lenses are red, not rosy.
I cease to be me.
I become the thing that was done to me.
Pitied, vilified, probably both at once.
I become a sample in a kit.
I become a statistic
to be skewed on a chart.
You claimed all my layers.
Thighs and lips and breasts and hair.
Even my bones feel wrong.
If I could just speak,
If I could spoil every plot
you ever conceived,
If I could take it all back,
reclaim everything you ever took,
starting with my voice.