“sang it sometimes, but never said it.”
from beloved by toni morrison
some
…who have not earned their laughter with agonies immortal…
might think of it as funny-strange
that to this day i’ve
never,
never looked headlong into an expectant gaze
and illustrated my loss….
never built the wall in person…
never said he held down my legs and pulled my thighs apart
i was nineteen
never said at first we were playing a game then he sat on my chest and held down my arms banging my head on the ground when i refused to remain stationary and watch his saliva goo-ing off his mouth down onto my face
i was ten
never lifted the corner of my skirt and pointed to a mark- see – here? that was a scar from the cook hitting over and over and he said he would not stop until i willingly opened my legs and when i came to i didnt understand
the origin
the source
of the blood
i was nine
no i’ve
never related
not into waiting eyes
that well into my womanhood
every moment claimed between my thighs
was tied to consequential aftermaths or to
the ripping of flesh and
the presence of bruising.
ears have held my stories
levitated off my already soft-toned tongue
in sob-raspy whispers
eyes remotely drank lettered tales of my woes
from pages near or far screens bearing separation
from them who have not purchased today’s smiles with yesteryear’s tears
but it occured to me today that i never have
never
have lain my violated history on the epicenter of any pupils, caring or otherwise
and it remains an unprocessed fact of me
released hopelessly into chests made napkins through a momentary invitation of rest
where burdens are lightly set down and yet not shouldered by another
yes
perhaps never to be offered to another for fear that the misshapen glass of this artless fact
would be
too ugly an artifact for an alternative heart to house
too offensive in its failure to disappear into the skin
of the past’s thought river
too difficult to heal with the band aid of a soothing word or well wishes
because my worries cannot be cocoa-buttered into the preferred silence
or logic-ed out of existence
or honied into submission by sweet touches
in fact there are days when they would make it worse.
and
unless you’ve lived on this road i travel
handing me my shoes at the back of your closet,
the insult of my reality spoken aloud
breaks any deal i have with my presence in your lives.
and so the diamonds we could have had
are destined to remain dusty and gray.
and maybe that is for the best…
… there is always the question of whether i want to verbalize in the first place
… there is always the question of whether we should be venturing to places we cannot come back from
… because i have a feeling i might buckle under the shape of my reflection in your eyes.