It is the time of that
almost-winter tree-fall
when the leaves have turned
halfway to mud
and I have almost decided
if I can really remember
one specific instance
or if everything
about you and I was rape.
After all,
if the mind has been broken
and stolen,
how can the body not be?
Our bodies know
when we lie to them.
Will the mud and muck and deterioration
I feel damp upon my soul
mean death, or rebirth?
I feel, on days like these,
that I have nothing left to give.
I feel only the hollow, scooped-out feeling of a person
entered, and drained, and
I can only make love if
it is made for me.
I give myself,
but still to be taken.
I feel sometimes
that I will never know
another way.
And this is when my heart breaks:
I cannot heal
because I was never granted a wound.
I cannot become a survivor
if I was never a victim.
I reach for more
and more pain;
more harm;
more fear,
just to feel I deserve some compassion.
Just to be seen, picked up, stroked
with validating fingers
and told
you're safe now. You can heal.
Just to paint a clearer picture
than a half-muddy mess
of leaves upon the pavement,
stepped in and never
rescued.
- Samantha Clarke
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