Obfuscation is intentionally obscuring the meaning of something to make it more difficult to grasp.

I had to skedaddle as a child

after speaking the truth

to the clandestine affairs

of my family.  Listening

to an ache in my shoulder

intuitively today,

obfuscation is a red

word, inflammatory.  I have to

look it up, again and again,

my confused difficulty

to perceive its meaning

a reflection of my own contractions,

master moves made long ago

by my inner strategist.  I admire so much

the fierce intelligence of this

little girl.  An adult gripped

me just here, hard,

with a clear intent

to inflict pain as punishment.

Someone who loved me.

It has been daring

to show up this week

as I brave the early

traumas encased in their living

tissue.  I’ve made my healing

intentions clear, and so excited

youngsters like pupils in a classroom are

waving their hands, desperate

for attention and accolade,

for someone to say,

yes, you’re correct.

I’m not about to medicate

this, and I’m not looking

for a story or a perpetrator.

Skedaddle is such an old-fashioned word

that I’m sure it was an elder,

too old to chase after me

but strong enough to inflict

twisted justice.  I face the fact

that I learned to lie

even to myself,

especially to myself

and I simply sit,

honoring this powerful

child — we survived thanks to you,

opening myself with more and more

compassion as I assure her

there’s no longer any need

to run and hide.


Inspired by:  Skedaddle, Admire and Clandestine.


Published by

Victoria Stuart

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

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