The Blame

"It's a girl's own fault if she gets sexually harassed!" The voice smirked, to the undiscovered victim.


Was it what she wore?

Was it what she said?

Was it how she walked or where she went?


I was wearing a jumpsuit.

An olive green, dust smothered-grease smeared, short sleeved but loose fitting jumpsuit.

I said nothing.

But I was pushed into the lockers, into the corner, blocked by his clammy mass of existence.

I said, please stop.

Was that inviting?

It made him lean in closer, every mildewed breath paralyzing my strength and heightening my fear.

I said, leave me alone.

Was that provoking?

It made him drape his brick-heavy arms up to surround me, tightly blocking me and constricting my courage.

I said, go away.

Was that tempting?

It made him tell me he wanted to do things to me, pleasures for his body and pains to cause my nightmares.

I said, no no no.

Was that asking for it?

Because next thing I knew his hands were moving across my body



Growing was the knot in my stomach. The pain in my chest. The intensity of my body trembling.

And yet he continued, my fear noticed but ignored.

I said, please-stop-leave-me-alone-go-away-no-nO-NO as I felt myself shrink into my greased down olive green jumpsuit.


I was headed over to the lockers in my steel-toed work boots at the end of shop class.

Because it was what I wore,

What I said,

How I walked,

Where I went..

So it must have been my own fault.


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