I told her that I couldn’t speak
above the sound of women bleak
and brave with insecurity
of shamed debased impurity bowed down and meek.
It was the sneering mocking men
who cast me back to what has been.
Fragmented pieces of a child,
abusive secrets heaped and piled and called a sin.
Women never accuse in jest,
we keep quiet and think it best
to find a way to end our lives
before the next time he arrives and soils the nest.
She turned it off and left the room,
I sat with my despair and gloom.
It has been ever so, alone
no witness, only mine to own, a sordid tomb.
I used to plug my ears and sing
la, la, not to hear anything,
but hug me and I’ll back away
I cannot trust a word you say, no, not a thing.
A florette written for #OctPoWriMo Day 3, on insecurity.