There I sat throughout the trial,
whilst they sat there in total denial,
sprinkling their seedlings of doubt,
believing the lies he would spout,
throwing out everything I say,
just so they could get their pay,
without a care in the world about who they hurt,
attempting to drag my name through the dirt,
the questions made me so uncomfortable,
with every answer I felt more vulnerable,
objection!
take a look at your reflection,
you're happily defending a man like him,
so that your wallet is a little less slim,
giving no ***** about the future impact,
dismissing it all as lies when really it's a fact,
what would you do if it was your kid?
would you still defend the perpatrtor for a few thousand quid?
despite what I know is extremely true,
at times I find myself questioning it thanks to you,
I was just a child you had no right,
to contribute to the nightmares keeping me up at night,
did you ever see through his lies?
did you ever eventually open your eyes?
deep down did part of you believe me?
but the cheque was something you had to see?
you thought your performance was perfect,
but guess what, it was a unanimous guilty verdict,
and though it was the verdict I wanted,
I'm still reeling at the verision of events that you concocted,
each day in court chipped away pieces of me,
and now it's him who gets to be free,
I'll never forget how you tried to twist my story,
in an attempt to bask in some glory

i am not thankful for my trauma.

my trauma did not make me a stronger,
better person.
my trauma put me into a constant state of fear.
my trauma made it impossible for me to feel secure.
my trauma told me i was unlovable and made me think maybe i was a bad person.
my trauma doesn’t let me rest.
my trauma will never stop following me.

my trauma did not make me stronger.
it made me weak and terrified of vulnerability.

so stop telling me how strong i am for overcoming things i never should’ve had to.
i don’t want to be strong,
i want to be able to feel my emotions,
i want to be able to be vulnerable, without fear.

i want to be unapologetically me again.
i miss what’s dead in me

Mimosa pudica retreat
Humid glasshouse, rainy day
Pane-separated from the world
Exhaling foggy vagueness
Colours run wet
World through window walls,
a distorted Monet reproduction
Morphing, mixing, mushy
Each canvas exists for a sliding second
Glass and breath
Collaborating through condensation
Our fuzzy-haze masterwork

Panoramic gossamer lens
Magically softens
spiky, scratchy, sharp, crispness
into a smudgy simulacrum
A kind deceit
Frowns, scowls, growls,
and bared-toothy rage,
all smeared
Gently redacted
Calm, dreamy, pillowscape broadcast
Impressionist buffer
In muted pastels

Reality in artful disguise
Remoulded for ease of consumption
Sugary spoonful of subterfuge
Sifting, sorting, selective
Incomplete and fragmentary
Blur-clouded brain-break
Intermittent extra distance
Breath-focused,
soupy-warm,
momentary masterpiece
Just for me
Until my leaves unfurl

I don’t want to sound like a ******
Accidentally pretentious
I sense this, prevent this
With pausings in musings
But consciousness, man
It’s a whole thing, isn’t it?

Moving, zipping, travelling
Across time and place
No shifts in space
Ultimate game of Pong
Bats are half images,
ghosts of smells,
light or heavy ****** impacts,
sounds, songs, poems
Triggers lightly but firmly bouncing us from
now to then,
then to when,
but always here to here
Across time and place
No shifts in space

Sometimes transitions are smooth and buttery-safe
-- I didn’t even realise I was thinking about trains and now about dinner
-- ping, pong, ping, pong
-- a metronomic, Wimbledon soundtrack
But then one player hits the ball too short and too high
and then the
Echoing crack
Bats us into sometime somewhen darker
The feckless defensive player manages to scoop the ball
just before it touches sod, but too short and too high
and then the
Echoing crack
Strongly, crisply, sharply
Smashed into jangly memory
Clear and incomplete
Real and impossible
Laser focus on The Bad Thing
Other details, window dressing
Breathing quickens, heart keeps the beat
The Image, or
The Smell, or
The Grip on My Ankle
Is faithfully replayed
Full colour, Dolby surround sound, Memory cut
The Grip on My Ankle
Is faithfully replayed
The Grip on My Ankle
…
…
…
Mind taps out for a bit
Consciousness slide into foggy nowhere, no time
Breathing slows, heart keeps the beat
Might just stay here
Cool, fuzzy fog is my best friend
Until fog-resistant, persistent stimulus insists
that I return
Ping
Clear-eyed now
Pong
Pasta sounds nice
Triggers lightly bouncing me from here to here

Because of you my life is tainted,
By the hellish landscape that you painted,
Sometimes I wonder how different my life would've been,
If what I encountered had been seen,
But it was behind closed doors,
Leaving me lonely in the moors,
My innocent heart,
It was torn apart,
All the fragments spread,
And I'm at the mercy of the voices in my head,
They so to move on you need to forgive,
But you've left me with trauma I always relive,
Sometimes I wanna **** you and scream "F#ck you!"
And I know my parents do too,
But you're not worth the time I'd have to serve,
So I just hope one day you'll get what you deserve,
Maybe one day I can tear apart the hell you painted,
And leave my life a little less tainted

If Medusa took a Xanny,
would the Xanny only sedate Medusa
or would it also sedate the serpents
writhing in her hair?