I am no longer sure what I am responsible for.

and it is eating me up.

I am responsible for rape.

I mean, not the actual raping.

or the helping of all victims.

But the conversation.

the exhausting conversion that tears me apart from the inside.

the one that asks, “What was she wearing?”

“Where were her parents?”

“What about choices?”

I am responsible for yelling, “NO.”

and punching that conversation square in the jaw.

right?

I am responsible for that.

Because I know better.

because I teach girls.

because I am a girl.

conversations about rape should be about rape.

conversations about rape should be about rapists.

not personal safety

not drinking

not age

but rape

and I know that

so I am responsible.

I am responsible for racism.

I mean but not to much.

Because my privilege is a gift

but also a card that says,

“Shut up, you’re white.”

And I’m okay with that because I can only own so much.

But in a place the color of sheets

more often then not things go unsaid

and we, the most educated, hold up our cards and say

I don’t own that.

I can’t own that.

You do it.

You, someone else, do something.

Because I can’t own everything.

So I own nothing.

So when I know something is wrong

I toss and I turn and I churn and I say nothing

because there is too much snow

and I can only yell so loud before the conversation becomes about

that white girl.

the one who won’t shut up.

the one who doesn’t know how to carry

the weight of all the things she doesn’t own.

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