Letter To My Sexual Assaulter

It's a layered remembrance of a cradle stock life,

sans the echo of the timely brigade

designed to shake off the deafening tribunal

that tells us what we should and shouldn’t hold on to.

And as the fading ember of recollection burns out for good

we see, we feel, we know

what’s rightfully ours and what’s wrongfully his.

A wind of regret tethered to the ground rallies around the baby dolls

until a heart, a mind or a soul could be seen.

She used to be a star light’s fan

Not ours to see, not ours to care.

But we hold on to her with a somber glare.

Looking to the skyline to tell us how to live right

Too big to know

Just another number

headed for the slumberof ghosts again,

too old to grow

Here’s to a new song. . .

A hand on the heartmeans no more false starts.

Life is about contribution not retribution

I heard my spirit scream

like a stream stilted by the white frozen snow.

Can I really measure my soul

by the hours I gave to you

and could never get back?

It's time that could never define me.

I can trickle away to the ground

the way my blood does when you pierce me

with your doubled edged swords.

You can draw your gun in the west,

I'll pose in the east

because no sound direction

leads me back to the chaos of you.

So call me a roamer

a loafer,

if it means

you will never cross my path

it's a mission granted by the skies.

But I still see the colored petals

bloom in the spot where

life marked your grave.

I still forge a thousand miles

behind, facing forward, walking backwards

to reclaim my life.

But I'll be fine.

The honey that purges from

that untapped tree

leads me to hold on

to my circular heart.

Still unglued.

Not broken.

Not unhinged.

Not yours.