Pity the Static

How long
does shame
last?

Yesterday I wrote a poem
exposing my Self.

I tore it
from the wombs
of corrupt women
and history books,

saying a child doesn't understand
the sacrificial trial,

the burying
of a young body
alive,

covering it all
with dirt,

the men
using shovels
dipped in holy water,

sin
in their callous hands,

and the pall of this night
promising

I'd never be seen
again.

But yesterday
I dug it back up.

And I am still here.

Still breathing dirt
like it was never meant
to hold me.

Still finding
my own hands and feet
under all that weight,

reaching.

Shame said forever.

Shame lied.

I am the soul
that cannot stay buried,

the name
that kept its own shape
under all that earth.

And if the men return
with their blessed shovels,

I will already be standing.

Already unburied.

Already saying
my own name

back
to the light.

So, the poem I wrote
no longer belongs to me.
It belongs to you, the Witness

Do with it what you will.
But do not pity me.
Pity the static

in the souls who do not
know how to return.