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 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. A body that asked for nothing but space and time. No invitation. Just skin— the same skin I sleep in, bleeding beneath the weight of your question. You want to know if the fabric flirted. If the hemline hinted. As if violence were a wardrobe malfunction. You want to dress the blame with my choices in fashion, But it wasn’t what I wore— It was what he said. And what he did. And what he thought he 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. I wore nothing once— just trust. That’s the most dangerous fabric of all.
No matter what I wore, I wore the weight
of knowing I’d be asked to explain why I was chosen, instead of why he wasn’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, and a right not to be torn down.
What was I wearing? Everything and nothing.
Fear. Silence. The stillness before the breaking. I was not a dress. I was not a yes.
I was a soul he mistook for an object to possess.
So ask better questions. Ask him why he did it. Ask why you make us relive it.
I was wearing the wrong place.
The wrong time.
The wrong kind of silence.
I was wearing What I wore the day you asked me if I had somehow asked for this.
the fabric remembers my shaking. My pleading. My stillness mistaken for permission. what I wore was never the threat.
I was wearing humanity.
And that should have been
enough.