Hey, you. You who still remember.
The nice, balmy evening. The friend who wanted a drink. The quick stop at the gas station. The harsh, angry voice, snarling at you to get out, they don’t serve niggers.
It’s not all whites.
The shards hitting the floor when the window shattered. Intrusion, violation, your home no longer a safe place, so much harder to take than the material loss.
It’s not all blacks.
The strobe lights flashing. The bass drumming. The blast. The sudden silence. The screams and moans. The blood. The scattered body parts.
It’s not all Muslims.
The tiny tadpole on the ultrasound image. Hope. Bliss. Love. The doctor stating your life was at risk. The decision. The emptiness. Your heart breaking, and breaking further with every scream outside the clinic, murderess, should have kept your legs together.
It’s not all Christians.
The darkness. The footsteps behind you. The pounding of your heart. The breath in your ear. The knife against your throat. His hands ripping at your clothes. The powerlessness. The fear. The pain. The shame.
It’s not all men.
The quiet in the apartment, emptied out in haste while you were at work. She’s gone, you don’t know why, you don’t know where. She’s taken the kids. Your soul is bleeding.
It’s not all women.
It’s never all.
It’s always just a few.
Don’t let them win.
Angelika Rust 
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