A Language Without Words

I told you I was filled with terror, my whole childhood

ripped from my heart and thrown to the woves, my head

was crowded with the echoes of voices scratching the raw

underside of my skull in a frenzy to escape.

I told you that yesterday held only fear for me, drowning in

the ulcerated wound of my dreams.

You told me to grow up.

I told you I was possessed by anger, a blind, white tide,

barely held down, whipping at the vessel of my brain,

threatening to capsize me, a fury that burned through every

nerve and fibre, wanting to maim, murder and devour

everyone who had ever made a victim of me.

I told you that today was a pillar of salt to rub into the blisters.

You told me to get over it.

I told you I was fallen to apathy, robbed of my illusions I

felt along among us, the world could show me nothing that

I wanted to see, cause no event of any consequence.

I told you that tromorrow promised only tedium, trapped in

the cell of my room.

You told me to get a life.

I spoke with my eyes.

You answered with your back.

 
 

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Run for and by people who have experience of sexual abuse.