If I could take you back to last summer, and all that happened, we would see gray. Gray skies, gray grass, gray space. Gray area. Gray would be the colour of the place where we would stand. And when you, looking back at me, search for words to describe it, you will not want to use that four letter word. He blamed you, and made you bear the weight of something that he did. And so you will say to me:
--It wasn't rape.
--But something close to it, I would tell you back, in hushed tones that echoed yours because my throat was closing up like yours.
I can see you shrugging it off and piecing yourself back together, a thought at a time, until finally you look up at me and say,
--It's about time we started dinner, don't you think?
And we are back in the present, and you are the same, with that same brave look around your eyes that I know only too well.
You head back to the kitchen and I am left on the couch, knees drawn up to my chin, just sitting there, tears flooding my vision, hurting for you as you jangle pots in the kitchen alone.
--It wasn't rape.
--But something close to it, I would tell you back, in hushed tones that echoed yours because my throat was closing up like yours.
I can see you shrugging it off and piecing yourself back together, a thought at a time, until finally you look up at me and say,
--It's about time we started dinner, don't you think?
And we are back in the present, and you are the same, with that same brave look around your eyes that I know only too well.
You head back to the kitchen and I am left on the couch, knees drawn up to my chin, just sitting there, tears flooding my vision, hurting for you as you jangle pots in the kitchen alone.