A Letter to the men who do not care enough

It´s our blood in your hands.

Addressed to the ones who think they care enough, you don´t. You are failing us and it is literally killing us. The men in our community don´t care enough about us. They don´t care enough about the things we need to stay alive. They don´t care enough about us to try to help stop the things that are killing us. They don´t even care enough about us to help us.

Addressed to the ones who know they don´t care enough, here´s another one that´s about you too.

Poems have been written about the ones who know they don´t care enough so many times, it could be the dirt which buries my battered body covering the entire world six feet under.

Not many poems have been written about the ones who think they care enough but actually don´t. This is because it´s difficult to write about how something is not. And it is difficult to describe how something is nothing. 

But silence is violence.

That is not a new concept, we know people´s passivity led to genocide. 

This is nothing more than a poem that expands upon what we already know to what already exists.

So here´s to the men who think they care and here´s to the men who know they don´t.

It´s our blood on your hands.

Don´t look so confused.

It was you who sold us out.

See you looked upon other men who did not care and remained silent or did as they did.

Oh yes some of you, though silent now, among each of you, know why you have our blood in your hands. Yes there is one specific moment you remember. The flash of red from the memory of the sight of blood drawn from a womxn.

Those of you have been written about, criminalized, punished, dealt with either in court or in the community. 

There are those of you may not have been dealt with, 

but you know. 

You remember the moment the same way she does. 

Cold, without air, it is the reality that exists between the two of you.
Then there are those of you, who think you have never drawn blood and now are surprised by the blood on your hands.

I write about you here.

Your silence has been not only violence, but our exinction.

Here´s to the man who knows about a woman being hurt and does nothing.

Here´s to every cousin who turned the othercheek.

Here´s to every friend who did not stop his frat brothers.

Here´s to every brother in law who pretended not to know.

Here´s to every neighbor who minded his own business.

Here´s to every uncle who still denies it happened.

Here´s to every neighborhood employee who stood by in silence.

Here´s to every trusted authority who did not believe us.

Here´s to every father who turned down help for us.

Here´s to every man who helped keep it under wraps.

Here´s to every man who saw it unwrapping and did nothing.

Here´s to every man who did the unwrapping.

Here´s to every man who walked through our lives after it had unwrapped and left us for dead.

Don´t look so surprised.

It´s our blood in your hands. This is the crime scene.

And here all the womxn go. Running around to attend to each other, caught in crossifire. 

The river of tears our mothers and sisters cry for each other will wash away the blood. 

Maybe the next generation will be safe, we whisper as we wither away.

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