Celina Adrian
31,620 poems read
"one of many"
when that church man, the deacon
the grown up
touched me
the churchgoer, the child
at the age of 7 and 8 and 9
big bold hands
once turned on a dryer to distort the sounds
of both his pleasure and my pain
or maybe that was his private part that shut my mouth
as with small body to size,
memory, to some extent
learned the art of contortionism
skillfully manipulating
a way to cope
trickery, as anger always found a way to live beyond
the dimples and smile
never hated God, the good gospel
and gospel music moved me
even when he unearthed me
nope, never God
even when the deacon would follow me to the church bathroom
church benches that sat hypocrisy
alongside bibles and hymnals, sunday after sunday
never faired too well with me
not when I started holding my pee
we welcome all of God's children
rewind memory to the laundry room of his home
then fast forward to the picnic at stone mountain
where deacon man
was rock hard
taking small body, unable to swim back then,
out to deep waters
one head bob then two times and again
water choked the throat of small body
as a reminder to keep church man praising his holy name
amen he said
hallelujah and amen
but I was quiet
loud tears
memories rewind to age 7 again where
afterschool care was not care
when sick school boy makes me suck his lil self off
off and off
and then off to that time at 21 when rape gave no warning
and back to age 10 when she stuck one hand inside of small body
and the other over my mouth
sssshhhhhhhh
sssshhhhhhhh
sssshhhhhhhh
loud tears, again
they can't quiet the loudness of these pages
where I return myself back to myself
and away from painful memories
if there lives a desirous need
to package
my sexuality or spiritual existence
tag and label it in a box called
I am still here
within these four walls of once shame by way of harm
I have actually abandoned hate, altogether
remaining intact
mostly
pain has to do these sorts of mental manipulations
in order to justify waking up to coded memories
many days, I have almost not woken up
choosing now to exist and awaken safely
in my own meditative yet safely shared space
that can longer be violated
nativigating in a bigger world
knowing now
that I am not alone
sadly there are plenty, many of us
warriors
we are here
lots of us, in droves
learning to drive past trauma
living breathing remaining
strongly
invaluably
to each other
invaluably
to what will unfortunately
be known as the next batch
of survivors
when that church man, the deacon
the grown up
touched me
the churchgoer, the child
at the age of 7 and 8 and 9
big bold hands
once turned on a dryer to distort the sounds
of both his pleasure and my pain
or maybe that was his private part that shut my mouth
as with small body to size,
memory, to some extent
learned the art of contortionism
skillfully manipulating
a way to cope
trickery, as anger always found a way to live beyond
the dimples and smile
never hated God, the good gospel
and gospel music moved me
even when he unearthed me
nope, never God
even when the deacon would follow me to the church bathroom
church benches that sat hypocrisy
alongside bibles and hymnals, sunday after sunday
never faired too well with me
not when I started holding my pee
we welcome all of God's children
rewind memory to the laundry room of his home
then fast forward to the picnic at stone mountain
where deacon man
was rock hard
taking small body, unable to swim back then,
out to deep waters
one head bob then two times and again
water choked the throat of small body
as a reminder to keep church man praising his holy name
amen he said
hallelujah and amen
but I was quiet
loud tears
memories rewind to age 7 again where
afterschool care was not care
when sick school boy makes me suck his lil self off
off and off
and then off to that time at 21 when rape gave no warning
and back to age 10 when she stuck one hand inside of small body
and the other over my mouth
sssshhhhhhhh
sssshhhhhhhh
sssshhhhhhhh
loud tears, again
they can't quiet the loudness of these pages
where I return myself back to myself
and away from painful memories
if there lives a desirous need
to package
my sexuality or spiritual existence
tag and label it in a box called
I am still here
within these four walls of once shame by way of harm
I have actually abandoned hate, altogether
remaining intact
mostly
pain has to do these sorts of mental manipulations
in order to justify waking up to coded memories
many days, I have almost not woken up
choosing now to exist and awaken safely
in my own meditative yet safely shared space
that can longer be violated
nativigating in a bigger world
knowing now
that I am not alone
sadly there are plenty, many of us
warriors
we are here
lots of us, in droves
learning to drive past trauma
living breathing remaining
strongly
invaluably
to each other
invaluably
to what will unfortunately
be known as the next batch
of survivors