Can’t you see, I’m not OK?
Can’t you tell them to go away?
Your own sons.
What irony in your own ones.
My world is crumbling
And I am fumbling
…Fumbling,
…Fumbling.
Rotting on the inside, and made to abide,
By them - by you,
Without a clue.
Of the damage being afflicted
As if they are addicted,
To the pain itself, hanging on the shelf.
Terror. Control. Manipulation.
They try to tell me: of my own creation…
Why are you unable to see the damage they are doing to me?
I wish I could tell you. I wish that I knew.
How you would react - much empathy lacked,
To handle this as the adult in the room
Not the one waiting - waiting - waiting,
To consume
Loom
Presume,
That nothing could possibly be all that bad -
Even though everyone around you was painfully sad.
Yet, is it you: Mother, that I should look to to rescue - Me -
- From them -
- In which you stem?
As they wait to do more damage
Leaving me in a place to mismanage.
Reeling, dealing, feeling.
What they took was not theirs to take
Only to forsake
Any voice - or choice -
That I might have had
Instead, thinking that I was bad?!
Who was most equipped to step in?
To let them admit their sin
Of the secrets untold, by those who were old
Taking what was never theirs, while trampling on the stairs.
That once headed toward hope, only now awaiting the grope, unable to cope.
I must run away. I dare not stay.
For the twisting, contorting,
blaming and shaming
Don’t you see me?
Can’t you see?
Why won’t you stay away,
for I am
not
O-K.
If only you could see me,
be free,
with glee,
You would then see,
That my hand trembles when they are near
As I rest in fear
That’s held so dear.
Faking defeat, unable to meet, taking a seat:
What did you do, to bring this upon you?
Trenches
…upon trenches
…upon trenches
With stenches.
Putrid and forbidden.
Hidden.
Built up like scaffolding around me
Unable to think, to be, to feel free
This is not my creation.
This it the outcome of your wrongful elation, citation,
Of assuming that what you have done, removing a sense of childhood fun
Is ok.
But I am here to say…
I had no face - no place - no lace
To wrap around my wounds.
Instead, these wounds placed me into tombs.
A soul of death. A gaping hole,
Leaving behind a dreadful toll.
Of pain - no gain, only a void to remain
Broken
A token
Of your power that left me sour
Rotting from the inside - nobody at my side
But you couldn’t see it - hear it, believe in-it
For you were in your own place.
A shadow without a face.
Living your own shame,
A place of deep blame.
Thrusted upon you
As your parents took on a new
Country,
home,
surroundings
and space
All upon a new place.
Unfamiliar and incredibly alone,
Leaving your mother a statue of stone.
Unable to breathe, to speak, to see -
She wasn’t heard nor seen to be,
A person of worth - of value - of love.
Instead, pushed away, ridiculed and shoved,
Deep into a place of despair
Nothing that made her life fair.
Shock therapy, mental health facilities - a worn out tare
Leaving her unable to see - to hear, your own despair
The stage was set.
Perhaps our best yet.
One of denial and lack of capacity - no tenacity.
It set in motion, a horrific potion,
Leaving us all in a place of trauma,
Filled with intergenerational drama.
And although my heart aches,
With a perpetual stake,
Buried deep within, the trenches of my skin - that keeps its shape deformed
Your silent voice whispering: you were warned…
I can only hold the family story, not written with glory
It is perspective to be reflective.
A mark left.
your mark - their mark
our mark.
One that lives deep within a spark
But now is the time to end the crime,
And grow anew, all in lieu,
Of your story - my story - our story.
Not yet filled with glory.
For we were unable to stand up and say: No more can we go on in this way!
Yet, I choose to walk in a place of calm healing,
Knowing that those who come after me will not be caught stealing -
That in which was taken from us, with a deep sense of fuss.
I now glow in knowing, what needs re-sewing,
Into our new fabric of life - one with less strife.
No pain, disdain,
Only to regain
reclaim and remain,
A healed soul for me - for us, for the clan
This part of our family story has a new plan.
One that says we’re done! No more taking our wholesome sun!
Survivor of CSA
Is not a place I shall stay,
Because after all the work has been done, to recreate our own perfect sun,
The next chapter will be the best yet,
For the sun has not begun to set -
Healing is that powerful a place,
To wrap one’s soul back in lace.
Finding the space, and harmony
To look back at the irony,
Of finally saying:
I see you. I hear you. I believe you.
For that in which is true.
One day soon, this trauma will be appreciated, not rated, hated nor baited.
For this place that once bore sorrow, now longs for a new tomorrow,
Setting us all free.
For it ends with you, and begins with me.
Author Statement
At first, the words came in fragments, scattered like broken glass; sharp, reluctant, difficult to fully grasp. But then, as I continued to create meaning from within the pain, I began to peel back the lawyers – most of which I spent decades trying to move beyond.
Then, in moments of hesitation – questioning if these wounds deserved ink, something shifted. The weight of history pressed against my own grief and all of that that came before mine, as echoes of voices became interwoven through mine, reminding me that silence was the only option for many, but did not have to be mine. Through it, familiar threads began to be reconnected, as a choice was made toward the ending; this fight for anew was not just for myself, but in honor of those who came before me. Those unable to tell their own story.
The act of writing became its own quiet revolution.
