Silence

Silence…Silence…SILENCE!  SILENCE…Silence…Silence.

Before the first time, we all had a voice.

It was a voice of reason and compassion and love.

Only a split second after that first time he hit

that voice would be silenced and caged.

Whether it was received by the outside world

and perceived to be at least quasi-normal,

everyone, … and I mean EVERYONE, chooses to

believe that the voice merely quivers from a chill

in the air or an acknowledged misstep.

We, who have felt the pain of a loved one’s fist,

can only attempt to explain the silence.

Silence becomes a new best friend,

a chosen compadre’, a reluctant companion,

and, at some point, a despised relative.

I and we are not free when we are silent.

Each breath that we expel without words

is felt on the bruises of other victims.

Our silence speaks for itself …

“Please remember us for what we once said

but more importantly, please protect us

from the lies we must now speak.”

Kat~1999

Hidden Hatred

My left eye is closed…

His fist is still red.

Tears fall quickly

As I realize his hatred.

Look up, I dare myself.

Look at him defiantly.

He scares me in a way

That I wasn’t taught.

Do you love me

As you hit me?

Do you cry tears

Ever to yourself?

You can never save me

From your angry hand.

I must save me

And forgive the damned.

Kat~2000