by Tandra Smith
Content warning: Assault.
After it happened Fingers snaked
their way up my body Past trembling
thighs Ghosting over budding bruises
Right into my chest
Fingers squeezed and
prodded and poked
Discovering unknown
crevices
And there they
resided Silencing me
Restricting me
“Don’t talk,” they breathed “After
all, who would believe you?”
Nobody for now
But when I talk, the fingers will wither
one by one My bruises will fade My
thighs will still
My voice will raise
And they’ll know
Tandra Marina Smith is currently the Engagement, Copy Editing and Analytics Managing Editor at The George-Anne. She is a 21 year old senior journalism major who also runs a blog, A Black Girl Blogging, on the side. When she’s not staying up entirely too late, she enjoys playing around with makeup, watching Netflix and figuring out what she should wear on a daily basis.
