by Dani Janae
I put on a suit and deem myself Trillary Clinton.
A tag on my cup of tea says “Empty yourself and let
the universe fill you.” I keep thinking of Olivia Benson,
I keep thinking about the jury of my peers. I pose
half-naked for a stranger's project on sexual violence.
My body a blur as I’m asked to move through emotion.
It’s the entire Commonwealth versus a man in a suit.
The detective presses his hand to his face as he asks
me how much I had to drink on the night in question.
The same detective tells me my rapist and his lawyer
are arrogant, like they’ve won already. I still try
to make time to laugh, but every sound from my lips
comes out as a plea. I create a playlist called
“rage suite” and hope it helps me to channel my
tears into fire. In the end, the Commonwealth says
I am incapable of standing trial. In the end, my tongue
is less flame and more a wet muscle. The men have won
the prize of my body, changed thing. Changeling. The hiss
of my name laying gold crowns on their teeth, oh victory.
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