you took something that day or maybe, I gave it away? No. it wasn't my choice it was your actions your carelessness, your selfishness your lack of willingness ... or maybe ability to understand how your actions affected someone else that shouldn't have been a surprise the history, the pattern, well-established by then and yet ... it was because I was the one you trusted more than the others and so I thought you were the one I could trust I want to say you took my innocence but someone will assume something sexual it was never that, not between us whatever I call what you took after that day I trusted even less easily you'd seen more deeply than I'd let anyone see before still not to the truth but back then I didn't let myself see that deep either but you had seen what I knew then and you had tangible reminders, words I'd written words I'd reluctantly shared until you sent them back you said later it was about not deserving them but at the time you said less than nothing other than you didn't want them ... or me? ... anymore I was ... heartbroken the word I used that night through my sobbing tears swinging at the park with the only person I could still trust enough was ... violated it's taken a very long time almost thirty years before I've felt the same freedom to write with vulnerability that I knew before that day I didn't block you when you reappeared on the edge of my life this time I thought that was giving away my power I let you lurk at some level wondering when you'd engage I'm done waiting leaving you lurking ... that is what gives away my power you're not in my world your voice no longer holds any sway you are gone never to return
I guess you could say I’ve been unpacking some boxes.
Mainly I wrote this for me because I needed to take back my power, but maybe it will also reminds someone else that they can also reclaim what was taken from them.
And even if it doesn’t, part of reclaiming what was taken is giving myself permission to share the words I’ve written even if they might really only make sense to me, because sometimes all we can do is tell our stories in whatever form they come most naturally.
Poeming Out 