I wrote this one for all of the women I know that no one believed, whose attackers are free. They privately and publicly fall apart, but I know why. Shattered women live in societies with little justice.
I believe you
with your eyeliner cat’s eye,
wine bottle latched to your hand,
I trace your hothead Facebook rants,
launching insults with no guidance systems into screens like confetti.
Insanity isn’t a switch.
It’s a stone hitting a windshield and cracks that creep at every stress until the driver can’t see clearly through the shattering.