It has happened to you.
You won’t believe it at first — we know.
We didn’t believe it either
when it happened to us.

Be prepared, sister.
The world won’t believe you.
But we do.

The police didn’t.
The MPs didn’t.
The politicians didn’t.
Victim Support didn’t.
They don’t.
They won’t.
But we do.

The newspapers didn’t.
The media didn’t.
The judges didn’t.
The institutions didn’t.
They don’t.
They won’t.
But we do.

Even the readers of this poem
may not believe you —
or may not believe themselves.
But we do.

Some of your friends, deep down,
didn’t believe you.
Don’t believe you.
Won’t believe you.
But we do.

We believe you
because we haven’t been believed ourselves.

The perpetrator doesn’t need to be famous,
important, or powerful to be protected.
He only needs to be a man.
Any man.
The lottery is won by birth alone.

Male supremacy is not a myth.
It’s a reality you feel on your skin,
in your flesh.

When they shout at you,
“It’s simply not the truth!”
tell them:
“Shut up. I know it first-hand.
Do you?”

You are paying a debt
for not being born male.
And for not being able
to change the face of this world —

a world where your body
could have been yours,
not trespassed,
not offended,
not wounded,
not violated,
not amputated.

Not a commodity.
Not a piece of meat.
Not a source of pleasure or power
you never wanted to give.

Be prepared, sister.
They won’t believe you.
But we do.