The Weight of Their Words

They stitch their whispers into my skin, tight seams of blame, unraveling me. I wear their questions like a second body, heavy with the shape of accusation. What were you wearing? (A name I did not choose.) where were you standing? (On the fault line of his wants.) why didn't you run? (My ribs were a locked door, and fear turned the key in my throat.) Their eyes, sharp as needles, thread me through- patchwork girl, quilted in doubt. My silence is a crime, my voice an inconvenience. I flinch beneath the weight of their words. They tell me I carry ghosts in my mouth, that my story is a wound best left unopened. But I am tired of swallowing knifes and pretending I am not bleeding. So I let the truth spill ink on white sheets, staining everything they wanted to keep clean.