Hold it in.
Don't say it.
It's too painful.
You want it heard
You want to scream it.
It aches within you
to shout it for all to hear.
But it's dangerous.
Perhaps...
just a murmur,
barely heard by passersby?
Perhaps just a whisper
perceived as an echo of the wind?
Perhaps just a pointed finger,
silent screams held within?
No.
You must not be perceived as an accuser,
Lest you suffer backlash,
Lest others judge,
holding you accountable
as the victim.
Wait...
You are the victim.
You...
are the victim.
Where is your justice?
It's time
for him to fall.
Scream it
Shout it
Let it all out.
He shouldn't hurt you
Ever
Again
About the Creator
Julie Lacksonen
Julie has been a music teacher at a public school in Arizona since 1987. She enjoys writing, reading, walking, swimming, and spending time with family.
Keep reading
More stories from Julie Lacksonen and writers in Poets and other communities.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova2 days ago in Poets
from death into life
Young Aldin of Wiloh had never contemplated death. It was almost strange — so many around him had the tendency to obsess over it, to clamor and claw almost desperately at their own perceptions of the end to know death as much as they could: when it would come, why it would come, where it would take them when it did.
By angela hepwortha day ago in Fiction
Comments (9)
Very powerful and deep.
That is a powerful poem!
Amen Julie! Empowering, Powerful & Well-written!
I know this feeling from my childhood. I had no idea I was that kid that I read about in so many different stories until I was in my late 50s. The one time I spoke up I was accused of lying and was belittled like I was when I was a kid. But, this time I did not let the abuse push me to silence. Very good work, Julie in bringing this important topic to the forefront.
The screams we hold within are the hardest to let out, a sentiment that your poem embraces well, Julie.
You've captured the struggle between silence and survival so well here.
I love it your story, poem your are a good writer keep up
I can relate. You want to scream for justice but you know it's useless to get justice because the law might be on the abuser side. The guilt of being the victim . Very sad situation.
Superbly penned!!!❤️❤️💕