~

something
sinister
this way came,
a lie insidious
steals our name;
one most often
we accept,
one so common
we ignore
its evil dance
concealed
in shame;
cohabitation
at its worst.
a simple line
that looks like this…

though brutal
our abuser
when asked
to spill our soul,
accounting for
another’s misdeeds.
instead our tongues
get caught
with heavy coils
that pull us down.
when cruel jaws
that gripped our leg
could be opened
by our witness,
hungry fangs
clamp tigher still
because we sit
in silence;
and in our silence
witness bear
the marks of
these who hurt us
the ones who
claimed to care.
whose uncovering
feels betrayal
and betrayer
feels the thief,
it adds to
our undoing,
becomes
a web of our
own choosing;
contradiction
of entrapment
traps us in
another's deeds.

i ain't no thief,
i’m just a child
with a story;
the only one
i’ve ever known.
its mine I say,
it fits me well,
it isn't one i stole.
these marks
have made me,
yes... even this
my painful tome.
but take this story
from this child,
you’ll take away
my only home!
take away
my lies
my name
and I’ll
be stripped
of all but bone;
left to wither,
die alone.
i'm just a child
with a story,
the only one
i"ve ever known.

i bear these scars,
i know them well,  
today i wonder why
i never chose to tell.


~

post script


is it too painful to relive the story?
or perhaps it is that in my shedding
i fear it will become my shredding
all that i have come to know,
despite its pain, as part of my own soul.

today i tell others to spill the truth
but am not willing to follow my own advice.
does this not make me guilty of
knowing but failing to act
on my own behalf?