With my hands tied tight and cruelly behind my back,
And my ankles strapped to the cold metal of a chair
I think of myself as a witch tied to a stake,
Waiting for judgment.
The same shame.
The same confusion for my crimes.
The same knowing that punishment will be dealt,
No matter the case.

I'm crying in the dark, trying to scream through the tape,
But no one can hear you when the door's closed.

I should have known then,
When he locked me away,
That none of this was normal
And I should have run.

And when I heard footsteps,
My voice caught in my throat.
I remember thinking
He's going to come back and he's going to ruin me worse than before.

And in the darkness I saw nothing,
But the pitter patter of the rain on the roof and within the gutters
Of the theatre.

And I remember the light spilling into the room,
When the door was pulled open,
And seeing the face of a friend I can no longer bring myself to speak to.

And I remember him tearing the tape from my wrists and ankles
And trying to lift me back up
When I fell to the ground in broken sobs.

He rushed me to to his girlfriend,
And I cried in her arms as she and the nurse
Tried to find out the severity of my bruises,
And if anything worse had happened.

I couldn't participate in gym class for a week,
But I was out longer,
Because I didn't want to change in front of the other girls
And let them see the bruises on my hips,
Thighs,
Abdomen,
And everywhere else.

Do not tell me I asked for it.
Do not ask me what I was wearing.
Do not tell me
I should have done this or done that.

I know what mistakes I made and what mistakes I didn't make.

That wasn't the first time
Nor was it the last.

I remember the shame
Burning beneath my flesh
In my therapists office
When he asked what I was wearing
That night.
And what was I supposed to say?

"Sorry sir, you obviously can't do your job. Have a nice night."

Is what I left that office with.

And I remember bleeding,
And I remember wanting to do violent things
And seek vengeance upon him.

But it'll be six years tomorrow
Since the first time that happened to me,
And I don't think I can keep living with wanting him dead.

My skin still burns with shame,
And I sometimes still revert back,
To the witch being burned at the stake.

O' music box,
With many strings,
Why imprison me?
Why cast your blades across the steely sky?
I must away, but you force me to stay.

When I was a boy, I saw unleashed upon you,
With my young eyes,
A proud disease.

My friend was sick; I could not heal him,
So all I could was smash and bash him.
He would not die, I did not cry,
For I was lost to my own music making box.

"Father, what is this gift? A toy?"
Asked I the living wandering boy.
"How does it work?"
Like death, my youngest self should have foreseen.

14
DEC
2010

by John Smallshaw in Uncategorized

      

Would I feel free if I were a tree?

To feel the wind?

To feel the rain upon my naked skin?

To write the leaves upon my many arms?

To hear the beetles crawl?

To watch the caterpillars fall into butterflies?

To watch the forest as it dies?

And when the axe bit

Would I scream?

Would I feel free

When I fell?

You're the faintest memory,
But the strongest one.
Ended without a sorry,
Also ended with none.

You're the prologue,
That broke me so bad,
You're the epilogue,
Of the days we had.

You're a short chapter,
But the most memorable one.
What sorrow more sweeter?
When to you I never won.