Survivor/Storyteller
Now that I am studying the anatomy of abuse, I run my fingers under the skin of slaughtered souls who are still alive.
Where does that leave us? We, the majority for whom justice will never be adjudicated and for whom victory is a vapor?
To write around the things I cannot speak.
To frame the house of my humanity.
To put the roof back on my soul.
Outrage usually comes with violent action. I feel my flailing weak word arms are limply directed at a cannibalistic giant. Meanwhile hot tears of outrage stream down my sunken cheeks. No, it surely is not enough. But word arms is all I’ve got to flail today.
I wonder if anyone can hear?
If all ears are clogged with cacophony.
I wonder if anyone can see?
If all eyes are dim – all sight silenced with praise.
I wonder if anyone can speak?
If all lips are licked with lies.
Be suspicious when someone of greater power assigns blame to someone of lesser power.
I will tell him in time, in bite-size packages about abuse, vulnerability, brokenness, and power. A powerful person himself, he must learn to wield his power well.
What we fear and what we should fear are often two very different things.
I was nervous to meet you. Nervous not to be enough. I was afraid to be, to bring my body not just my soul to you. And there you were – althogther lovely and smashing.
I confess that find the truth about sexual offenders callously cold, hard, and unspeakably complex.
