Quick, draw the curtains

to hide them; call them

ghosts or skeletons, nervous laughter

feeling haunted.  But they are living,

breathing, groaning like that

drunk high school boy who’s

cornered you and covers your mouth

as he grinds himself on you,

ripping off your clothes to the tune

of his inebriated buddy’s giggles.

He wants to sweep it

under the rug today, standing

with such gloss facing

the committee of mostly men

who firmly buried their own

uneasy memories

grab and grope and insist

with tongues and fingers

engorged and blasted

out of their minds, so it really

doesn’t count.  A hastily dug

grave with fragile soil atop

and it doesn’t occur

to any of you that we see it.

We tune right in and see

what your heart holds.  You’ve

introduced a palette of swirling

lies to paint a new reality

but we aren’t interested,

not when the fearsome truth

lies exposed, beating and gasping

like a fish out of water.

And we feel with compassion

as the jumanji blocks of your life

come crashing down in this

precision of love we apply.

We usher you firmly

to a healing place — not

this court, even as you

scream your colorful curses

and paint the victim once again.

Inspired by: fragile, gloss,  palette, and an article, “The Education of Bart O’Kavanaugh” by @JuddLegum in Popular Information today.

Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

4 thoughts on “Truthsayers”

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