Twenty years to the day
did, in me, a friend confide
of half-told rape -
denied, betrayed -
and attempted suicide.

Only a teen, no one believed -
so easy to ignore.
Not the cop, "You wanted it."
Not the beau, "You dirty whore."

Who, by the way, left her alone
and met up with another.
Hitchhiking was the way to go,
and where it all went wrong.

"Don't do that!" She had been warned,
every chance they got.
She snuck around.
He looked 'okay.'
And then he wouldn't stop.

'Accuse the girl,' was the game.
Her parents never knew.
Terrified of what they'd say,
and maybe blame her, too.

The secret haunted me for weeks,
kept me watching my own daughter.
Did I know her childhood life?
Was I that kind of mother?

To turn blind eyes and deaf ears
on things, to me, that didn't matter.
To scold and shame -
a looped refrain -
and cause her not to bother?

Scared to tell of what she's done
because she'd get in trouble -
grounded and then punished for
defiance of her elders.

The death of me would be silence,
when speaking meant the most.
Afraid to share,"You wouldn't care."
When her days were at their worst.