What's Projected Versus What Is.

"Is it still making love if it's rape?"
She asked, her mouth twitching as her throat swells with every trace of saliva she tries to swallow
Her veins full of frozen mud
Her body drifting away from her
It's not her. She's not her anymore.

"Is it still making love if it's rape?"
She asked, clenching her fists with rage
As great as the bull towards the colour of the numbers on her digital alarm
Time doesn't matter anymore.

"Is it still making love if it's rape?"
She asked, as salt stained waters condense on her pale cheeks
Quivering and shaking, she seeks a new identity
Clutching the cross she wears around her neck
Remember the God she thought had loved her.

"Is it still making love if it's rape?"
She asked, as sweat perspirates on her brow
The thought of what just happened
Turns the butterflies to knives
As she seeks an answer to the question

"Is it still making love if it's rape?"
I asked myself,
With no one there to listen
To answer
To care.