When I was a child a man took my body
and used it to gratify his own.
He knew I was a child but it did not matter
when it came to attributing blame.
The guilt was his, the pleasure was his;
mine was the guilt and the lasting shame,
mine were the marks of the scars he left
where he hurt me in ways I could not name.
Now, a whole long lifetime on, I weep
to see how little things have changed:
murder is not murder and rape is not rape;
the power play goes on
and the outcome is the same.