Can You Hear Me?

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?