By Shreya Pandey
In the shadows of the night, my innocence torn,
My voice silenced, my spirit worn.
Fear grips my heart, its icy hold.
Was it my fault? A question cold.
In my modest attire, I stepped out with dreams so bright,
The time was right, the day filled with light.
But shadows crept in, darkness took hold.
Was it my fault? A story untold.
In a world where being a woman made me question,
Why not born a man, a different lesson?
If roles were swapped, a narrative foretold.
Was it my fault? A mystery unfold.
In the darkness of my silenced screams, prayers ignored,
Soul shattered, hopes floored.
My skirt—not an invitation, just fabric, nothing more.
Was it my fault? A question at my core.
In those moments, scared to my core,
I remember my mother's embrace, dad's firm hold.
Why did my wings get clipped? Please save me.
Was it my fault? Then set me free.
In the blame game, victims bear the weight alone,
Men downplay rape, a narrative often told.
"What's the cricket score?" they ask, turning away.
Today it's someone else's—tomorrow, who can say?
A daughter, a wife, a sister, a friend—
Was it their fault? A question that should end.
Not all men, yet always a man.
If it gets to you, maybe you're part of the plan.
I know now, in the echo of injustice, of blame, I rise, I soar:
"It's not my fault"—because I am more.