The Door That Caused Rape

Father,

You told me the streets weren't safe
So I stayed inside and watched
your son spread his wings and fly high
across the skies.
Mother,
You told me my chest will tempt men,
and when compelled, their acts won't be their fault,
not at all,
So I crouched and folded into myself and
shrouded what was left in all layers I could get.

Born with a rulebook
chained to both legs
I followed what was said:
"Minimise yourself, erase your presence,
flatten your curves and try self defence."
I destroyed everything feminine in me
so no blame can come my way.
And yet, here I am, victim of another faultless crime.
Another statistic and a fleeting national headline. 

Now in my grave, I await,
the verdict from the moral brigade that
will find a loophole and dig till it
frees the man from culpability
and nails me instead
for being too lax about protecting
the only thing worth saving in me:
dignity and the honour of my society. 

Tell me, what was my share in this bloody fate?
What looseness in my character justifies hate that
wishes to see my body turned inside out?
Was my house too inviting of strange men?
Was my bedroom door painted the wrong shade?
Was my door latch giving the wrong signals?
Was I showing my skin while unconscious?
Was my breathing too sensual?

Or is it that two simple words: "Don't Rape"
are heavier on the tongue
than a lifetime of rules that don't make sense?
Or, maybe, is it just that nothing will ever be enough
to save me from being the victim
of the wrong chromosome?
Maybe it ends only when I cease existing.
What else explains
this perfect student
failing the final test?