The Polite Victim
When I tell someone I’m a **** survivor
They wanna know how long ago it happened
Like the trauma or the pain is like some kind of sidewalk paint on the outside of our bodies
that after time gets washed away by our own tears
Or maybe the rain
When I respond that I was five
They say “ no, I mean, you know, the last time”
Even though they don't really need to know that's the only trauma right now I'm willing to let go
because these days it's all about how much skin you show
I step below my thirst for the end of ignorance
Satisfy their interests
And choose to be the polite victim
But then they expect me to be willing to try and understand him when I’d rather cut off
Every
limb
Like they expect me to be fine because I've had “all this time” to “get over it”
But just like physical wounds, wounds like these never heal completely
There’s always a scar left behind to reveal
And if you peel back my metaphorical layers
You’ll see that scar
I understand that
To
most people out there that's all we are
is a body
But I am not a body, I have a body
A body that's meant to protect my soul, a body that he almost stole...from me
But you cannot have a body and be a body at the same time
what a random thought
Have you ever noticed how every slam poet says ‘body’ the same way
Because deep down we all feel the same way
about it
We spit it out like it's some kind of disgusting
Like it betrays us, like the word itself betrays us
But really it doesn't
Not any more than a car does when it slides on black ice
It’s not the car’s fault, it’s the environment its exposed to
And possibly our fault too for not recognizing it’s limits
But I, for once, will not give it that power,
I am done converting my hatred for my body
Into hatred for myself
