Lyrics

You asked me what I wore that night.
As if cotton fabric could conjure crime.
A tank top. Faded jeans.
Bare feet on linoleum.
No lipstick. No blush.
Just breath,
and body,
and the right not to be untouched.

You searched my closet like it held confessions.
But all you’d find
are T-shirts
threaded with silence.
A sweatshirt giving off comfort
not consent.

What was I wearing?
A body that was mine.
Skin that asked for nothing
but space and time.
You want to dress the blame with my choices in fashion,
But it wasn’t what I wore—
It was what they said.
And what they did.
And what they thought they owned.
And how you all still ask the wrong questions
When we come home
broken.

I wore pajamas when it happened once.
A school uniform another time.
Once, I wore a smile
because I thought they were kind.

Once, I wore fear
like perfume.
It clung to me in every hallway.
No matter what I wore,
I wore the weight
of knowing I’d be asked to explain
why I was chosen,
instead of why they weren’t stopped.

Hang the blame on hangers,
tuck the shame in drawers,
sew denial into every seam
and lock the goddamn doors.
But cloth is not invitation.
And skirts are not consent.
Stop dressing violence up in questions
and calling it good intent.

What was I wearing?
The same thing I wear now:
A name,
a voice,
a right not to be torn down.
You want to find guilt in zippers and hems,
But monsters don’t care
what fabric defends.
So ask better questions.
Ask him
why he did it.
Ask why you covered for him.
Ask why we have to relive it.

I was wearing the wrong place.
The wrong time.
The wrong kind of silence.
I was wearing humanity.
And that should have been
enough.