You tell me to bury the hatchet
when I’d rather use it to fracture
the lives of the ones who took their sharp
ills out on my body, now remarked
yet, able to see who benefits from such a plea;
silence the echoing screams
pouring out of me without fair warning.
From suffering to scorning,
not just from the scars of their weapons of choice
but from the kindhearted ways you, too, silence my voice –
my only real weapon now that I’ve grown
up old enough to choose to own
the damage that results from causing a racket.
So, no I will not put down my hatchet
because what your request really means
is to wipe my face and hands real clean,
fall in line with the “forgiving” others,
stop being unsightly and such a bother.
But I’ve tried to bleach my collar and nail beds real white
I put up the darndest of fights,
and yet I’ve learned in all my failing;
no matter what I do, you’re always complaining.
I’ll never be washed white as snow.
It’s because there’s no way to erase what I already know;
that the likes of you and the others who
so blindly continue
to cover up dark truth in white linens
are the realest of child-raping villains.
The story in my bones, far more spooky
than the fire burning in me like a fury.
Despite the risk of speaking, I’m still here wielding
this hatchet; so fucking unyielding
is what I became when my parents turned into monsters –
the saving grace that my broken mind conjured
in the middle of a terror that destroys,
creates in living bodies the deepest of voids.
When just like my rapers, also invaders
were the onlookers, determined blind fakers,
insisting they don’t see
anything wrong with what was done to me.
They dare now insist and demand
I put down my weapon on their condescending command.
But still my hatchet remains in my hands –
I’ll carry it all over this stolen land,
with it mark up the books, records of all that they took
from me and the many adult survivors, butt of your insults
and wary glances from the ones who wouldn’t take chances
of ruffling feathers by considering whether…
The truth is that children who ask for help
have already survived what can’t be unfelt…
Or, that children who muster enough sound
to ask why it’s normal for dads on their kids pound
or why mothers are too sick and sad
to see the ugliness inside their baby dads…
Or, that kids who simply say hey,
I get hit by three set of hands every day…
Are worth trusting enough to take a second fucking look.
You are the same, like those who misunderstood
that the truth cuts and tears
and though bleeding doesn’t always seem fair,
sometimes that’s what it takes to salvage
the good left in all the wreckage;
not just of the bodies who bled as victims,
but of the ones who, like you, the villains
who plowed and plundered, raped and broke apart
innocent bodies left alone in the dark
shadows of your turned backs.
That’s why I continue to hack
away with the coldness of my blade.
For my voice is all that was saved
when I finally grew old enough to search for ways
to do more than sit and pray for the body I had before
I became so badly beaten and torn
from the inside out, despite your dissociative doubt
that one so well put-together could have endured
the process of witnessing in silence all that is impure.
My hatchet, you so greatly fear
is my proof that I came too near
to the underbelly of human nature –
the stuff you turn sterile in lectures
and podcasts about the ones you deem
are better not kept in the dark unseen;
for you’d rather consume and binge
words about the perpetrators. So cringe
to think this is how you get off,
all while telling victims who speak up ENOUGH
all ready! with the bleach bucket
to silence those of us causing a ruckus.
With our hatchet-sharp voices, no longer silent
Echoing on about your compliance.
With my words I’ll sound the alarm
About all that continues to cause us such harm.
Parker Stillwater 