muddy water

did they see you
come in with glazed eyes
your heels in your hands
uneven folds in your dress

did they suspect
the nature of your consent

did they wait
for the morning
to unleash their questions
made of stone -
those incoherent barks
of dogs in heat

or
did they corner you
in the dim light of the street
barely reaching you
before you could shut the door
to what needed
to be left outside?

did they whisper
judgments meant
for you to hear
that sounded eerily similar
to what screamed from televisions
and laughed in twisted emoticons
on whatsapp humour?

now that you are home
sleeping a disturbed sleep
with legs closing themselves
tightly, arms occasionally flailing
then falling
and a pain that has not left
your face since you came back,
i wonder if i should have asked you
about tonight.

for now,
i will lie next to you
and let my gaze travel
from you to the yellowed moon
outside the window
in the backdrop of
other closed doors
behind which i know
what people are saying.