DEAR HISTORY

Believe me when I tell you

I did not know her name

but remember the colour of her dress:

red, like my own school uniform.

I did not know death could come to a girl

walking home, stick in hand,

tracing circles in the dirt,

singing as she went along.

I did not know death

would find someone

for wearing the wrong colour smock

in the wrong part of town.

My parents spoke in hushed tones,

but I heard the storey of her body

dragged from street to gully,

left sullied in semen and blood.

I heard the song she sang,

the one I wish I could sing now.

Truth is, I was that girl.

Truth is, I was never there.