Wednesday, November 06, 2013

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?

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