For S.S. June 1970 – March 2009
i sometimes don’t know how to feel my own pain
i sometimes don’t know whether to feel pride or shame
sometimes they steal what you cannot see
one in three
one in three
one in three
one in three*
i step cautiously through my life, either feeling it burn through my body and all around me,
or not feeling it at all.
sometimes i stand tall
walking forward to kiss my future with grateful lips
when despair pulls at my ankle and sinks me deeply into a quiet night
quiet nights i remember trying to sleep lightly
every time a twig cracked
or the wind rose above a whispering caress of the window,
i would jump out of sleep
sitting straight up in bed
wondering what creeps.
it was always the evenings
when the heat spread its unwanting and smothering embrace
across the air so oppressively that sleep
would steal me away
in slow spiraling circles,
down,
down into unconsciousness
and if i tried i could not awaken
the heat kept me imprisoned,
until it was too late.
it was often too late.
by the time a finger could start to break through the paralysis of slumber
i was set upon and pinned under
hands tripled above me, searching my body for places i did not yet understand
they were everywhere at once
clawing through my cartoon pajamas
pushing down on my face
filling my lungs with garden dirt
sealing a fate of nights to come again and again
stealing my innocence and my breath from me
each time i was caught in the grip of this evil, barely 9 the oldest time,
nearly 3 in the beginning
always out from under a parent’s careful watch
a piece of me slipped
out of my eyes
evaporating into fear on my skin
out of my screaming lungs
dissipating into pain on my breath
out of my heart
dissolving into loss of that which had no name yet
i sometimes wish i could take you into that gruesome past
and tell you what was touched on my body
where i bled
what was forced into which not wide enough opening
so you could have an image of the terror to take with you
and use to protect
your children
your sisters
your daughters
your sons
and other times i hope to gain the words to show you
the tearing of my labia is not the point
the permanent wound on the opening of my backside is not the point
the tiny black scars on my face are not the point
because all of those wounds healed and closed.
but
my
heart.
at times i cannot sleep when the memories chase me
from day where i can avoid them,
to night where i cannot
other nights bring the sweetest comas –
until i can’t awaken from the terror that chases me in dreams –
then there are the times i wake myself with my own screams
the times when being held will not be enough if i can even bear to be touched
the times when i think myself better dead than to have these awful voices in my head
the times when i go far into myself and can’t be reached
every day of my life i fight this battle and sometimes i win
but tonight it will be good enough if my voice reaches someone who can prevent this from happening again
to
someone else’s little girl who is crying for help in the only way she knows how
not having the words to describe why she doesn’t like uncle so and so or the gardener or the janitor at school
to
someone else’s sister who is being hurt in some way she thinks is normal because it has happened to her as long as she can remember
stealing someone’s soul is the same thing as murder.
i sometimes don’t know how to feel my own pain
i sometimes don’t know whether to feel pride or shame
sometimes they steal what you cannot see
one in three
one in three
one in three
one in three
*estimated one in three women, and one in seven men have suffered some form of sexual abuse. it seems like an unbelievable number until you think globally, and realize how privileged we are in the country to have some say over our rights as individuals.