On Silence
~ Nora Cooper
A little while ago, another poet asked me for the name of my abuser.
They said this was to protect their friends, so I told them.
I didn’t want to. I thought I had to.
It’s just that I have heard so much about survival, like I should not lie.
If I’m going to cry, “wolf,” then I must name it.
Don’t be another girl making another mountain out of another mole hill.
I have heard so much about strength.
So much about how the voice is a redemption.
How to speak is to heal.
Sometimes, I feel like everyone just wants the resurrection story out of me.
The parts of my survival I know how to make useful.
I am so ashamed of all that which I do not say.
Sometimes, I don’t want to talked about it.
I don’t want to write a poem about it. I don’t want to tell my mom.
I don’t want anyone to look at me like I am brave.
Or like I am a little bird with a broken wing.
Or to look at me at all.
Sometimes, my heart is breaking, and other times I am just tired.
I have spent so much time at war with my silence, I have forgotten everything she has done for me.
When I was terrified to speak.
When I was terrified to speak.
When my abuser was in the audience at a slam.
When they talked to me after.
When my silence met their’s.
When this poet demanded a name of me.
When my stomach was nothing but a mass of fear and obligation.
My silence took my hand, squeezed it gently as if to say,
“You owe them nothing. I am here if you need me. Speak only if you want to.”
So to you, quiet child,
who have kept everything just inside your mouth for whatever reason, I see you.
Even when you say nothing, I believe you.
I believe you are scared.
I believe that it hurts.
I believe that it happened.
I believe that you loved them.
I believe that you didn’t.
I believe that you still do.
I believe that you are confused about forgiveness and justice.
Believe me, quiet child, you are doing nothing wrong.
There is no right or wrong here, there is only your choice.
You speak when you are ready, I promise, your silence has not set a caged beast free.
You did not release a monster.
You survived one.
Trust me, quiet child, I know of a girl before me,
I do not blame her silence.
I do not blame her.
My silence hears this poem, looks at me, teary-eyed and says....
I say, “I’m sorry I hated you. I always thought you were the weakest part of me.
The part that needed the most forgiveness, but no.
You are the first one who never asked me to prove anything.
The only one who believed me before I spoke. And after.”
And now, when my silence takes my hand, I squeeze back.
I say, “I know.”
I say, “Thank you.”
And I mean it.
Like I cry every single time, I listen to this poem. Literally, Every.Single.Time. And I've listened to it for thousand times. Like someone puts balm to my wound and says everything is going to be okay, the wound is going to heal, and you are going to be okay. Hang in there a little bit more. Just one more day. When I can't trust my self for saying I'm okay. So thank you.
I do not blame her silence.
I do not blame her.
My silence hears this poem, looks at me, teary-eyed and says....
I say, “I’m sorry I hated you. I always thought you were the weakest part of me.
The part that needed the most forgiveness, but no.
You are the first one who never asked me to prove anything.
The only one who believed me before I spoke. And after.”
And now, when my silence takes my hand, I squeeze back.
I say, “I know.”
I say, “Thank you.”
And I mean it.
Like I cry every single time, I listen to this poem. Literally, Every.Single.Time. And I've listened to it for thousand times. Like someone puts balm to my wound and says everything is going to be okay, the wound is going to heal, and you are going to be okay. Hang in there a little bit more. Just one more day. When I can't trust my self for saying I'm okay. So thank you.
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