Can You Hear Me?
Why did you choose to hurt me? Did you ever stop to realize that the pressure of your touch would not leave when your hands left my body? I can feel your fingers probing even now as I lie in bed wishing for sleep to overtake my mind. I scrub and scrub until my skin is raw, but the dirt of your presence is with me still.
I am growing older, on the outside that is. But somewhere deep inside is the young girl you first touched. She is still crying because I have yet to learn how. My tears soak only the present. They scarcely touch the hurt you so deliberately chose to give to me.
Did you know then, or do you realize now, that your choice would whisper in my thoughts and linger in my actions long after you finished? I am learning not to be a victim, but a victor. Yet the battle I am fighting will always be a part of me, a part of the very definition of who I am.
I am learning to listen, to hear beneath the words of others who have been touched by someone like you. We draw to one another and whisper of the lingering presence. We talk of showers and nightmares and ordinary things we turn away from because.
Because. Because a part of us stopped growing that day long ago when you made that choice. One moment in time showed us the ugliness of life before we had been nurtured enough to bear its weight. Those of us who survived, or are surviving still, from that choice you made learned, or are learning still, how to grow in spite of the crying child within. But we will never forget those words, that touch, the pain of your actions.
I cry today for the ones who were crushed beneath that weight. I ache to see the children who come within your grasp. Do you know what you have done? Do you see at all? Will the word of just one child, nearly grown, pierce the wall you must have built around your heart?
Can you hear me at all?
Why did you choose to hurt me?
Did you ever stop to realize
that the pressure of your touch
would not leave when your hands left my body?
I can feel your fingers probing
even now as I lie in bed wishing
for sleep to overtake my mind.
I scrub and scrub until my skin is raw,
but the dirt of your presence is with me still.
I am growing older, on the outside that is.
But somewhere deep inside
is the young girl you first touched.
She is still crying
because I have yet to learn how.
My tears soak only the present.
They scarcely touch the hurt
you so deliberately chose to give to me.
Did you know then, or do you realize now,
that your choice would whisper
in my thoughts and linger in my actions
long after you finished?
I am learning not to be a victim, but a victor.
Yet the battle I am fighting
will always be a part of me,
a part of the very definition of who I am.
I am learning to listen, to hear
beneath the words of others
who have been touched by someone like you.
We draw to one another
and whisper of the lingering presence.
We talk of showers and nightmares
and ordinary things we turn away from
because.
Because.
Because a part of us stopped growing
that day long ago when
you made that choice.
One moment in time showed us
the ugliness of life before
we had been nurtured enough
to bear its weight.
Those of us who survived, or are surviving still,
from that choice you made
learned, or are learning still,
how to grow in spite of the crying child within.
But we will never forget
those words, that touch,
the pain of your actions.
I cry today for the ones
who were crushed beneath that weight.
I ache to see the children
who come within your grasp.
Do you know what you have done?
Do you see at all?
Will the word of just one child
nearly grown pierce
the wall you must have built
around your heart?
Can you hear me at all?
Why did you choose
to hurt me?
Did you ever stop
to realize
that the pressure
of your touch
would not leave
when your hands
left my body?
I can feel your fingers
Probing even now
as I lie in bed
wishing for sleep
to overtake my mind.
I scrub and scrub
until my skin is raw,
but the dirt
of your presence
is with me still.
I am growing older,
on the outside
that is.
But somewhere
deep inside
is the young girl
you first touched.
She is still crying
because I have yet
to learn how.
My tears soak
only the present.
They scarcely
touch the hurt
you so deliberately
chose to give to me.
Did you know then,
or do you realize now,
that your choice
would whisper
in my thoughts
and linger
in my actions
long after you finished?
I am learning
not to be a victim,
but a victor.
Yet the battle
I am fighting
will always be
a part of me,
a part of
the very definition
of who I am.
I am learning
to listen,
to hear
beneath the words
of others
who have been touched
by someone like you.
We draw
to one another
and whisper of
the lingering presence.
We talk of showers
and nightmares
and ordinary things
we turn away from
because.
Because.
Because a part of us
stopped growing
that day long ago
when you made
that choice.
One moment in time
showed us
the ugliness of life before
we had been
nurtured enough
to bear its weight.
Those of us
who survived,
or are surviving still,
from that choice you made
learned,
or are learning still,
how to grow
in spite of
the crying child within.
But we will
never forget
those words,
that touch,
the pain
of your actions.
I cry today
for the ones
who were crushed
beneath that weight.
I ache to see
the children
who come within
your grasp.
Do you know
what you have done?
Do you see
at all?
Will the word
of just one child,
nearly grown,
pierce the wall
you must have built
around your heart?
Can you hear me at all?