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.
Be suspicious when someone of greater power assigns blame to someone of lesser power.
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.
Sexual violence invades the space that you inhabit – literally leaving you feel like ruined refuse.
His approach was stealth, quiet, brooding, and dark. He came over my soul and spirit and in one bite severed my hands. Not my heart, no – my hands. I could no longer grasp the driftwood or the bread of hope.
Little girl, by degrees your littleness will leave. By degrees so will you.
I too hunger for justice, truth and hope.
If you need me, you will find me in a secret and sacred place.
With an upturned chin to Him who is Justice, Truth, and Hope.
The coffee is hot.
The candles are lit.
The flame is small but bright enough to illuminate the way.