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August 10, 2019

Re-opening Old Wounds

I’m asked about proof

To give them something, something concrete

Unmovable, monumental heavy – truth

As if my words, my wounds

My wincing at menial situations

Or raised voices

If my waking in tears

Or screams

Or body jolting fear

Is not enough


They take you back through the fragmented memories

Which are much like being in a dream

You see yourself in one place

And focus on one thing

The wallpaper that morphed into galloping horses as you tried to distract your mind from in between your legs

The red hue of the velvet curtains that were more dust than fiber

The stairs

Leading up

But you’re going down

A muffled call from your sister telling you to run

But knowing it’s all locked

You’re in lock down

In a mansion of a home

With a whole room dedicated to image and status

Of green and gold armchairs

Pianos never played

Family portraits hung in extravagant frames

To take away from the distress on the children’s faces

My mind can go on and on with snippets of colour

And situations that never play out to an end

Overlapped by words that don’t string together


But I know my body

She’s smart, she does this

This stirring of events in order to protect what’s left of my innocence

She does it to ensure that I can keep that softness that makes me, me

And yet they keep asking me to rearrange her work

Rearrange and match the fragments

As if I’m a puzzle that needs to be put back together

All to provide proof, hard evidence

As if I am not enough.

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