I was talking to a friend about a man everyone loves.
A man with statues made of praise.
A man whose name enters rooms before he does.
I said: but look at what he did.
The bodies left behind like unfinished sentences.
My friend tilted his head, like the problem was interesting.
Like there might be a footnote that fixes everything.
He found a philosophy in it.
Because somehow torture becomes a discussion table,
a clean surface where everyone can place their opinions
without staining their hands.
They speak as if reason ever stopped a scream.
clear, blunt, unnegotiable—
They see something that needs “context.”
As if pain ever asked for context.
They start listing his virtues.
As if greatness could disinfect violence.
As if genius could pay a debt written on someone else’s skin.
They turn harm into arithmetic.
This much good cancels that much damage.
This many achievements outweigh those women.
And I wonder how easy it must be
when it’s never your body
being reduced to an argument.
They justify a hell they’ve never entered.
They debate a wound they’ve never carried.
They speak with authority about places
because they will never be that vulnerable.
God, how confidently they speak.
But some voices arrive already bruised,
already explaining why their pain should count.
His misunderstood genius.
The victims disappear quietly,
while the room fills with admiration for the man who hurt them.
I talk about another woman
I ask: what if it were your mother?
They don’t cross that bridge.
And I don’t understand them.
violence against women is always provisional,
always waiting to be believed.
Pain must explain itself.
Trauma must defend its existence.
That’s what makes me sick.
why is someone else’s hell
ever something to debate?
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