This could have been a poem. But it is not.
I want to live down in the fucking dirt of truth and reality.
I want the truth of childhood sexual abuse exposed and explored and damned.
I want the red dirt of this land sifting between my toes. I want to start to feel again.
Fuck your Catholic abuse. Fuck you for squeezing down my life.
Fuck you for your nice public Catholic words and fuck you for the damage you do when you think that the public is not seeing what you really do behind the scenes to people like me.
I will not genuflect. I will not forelock tug. I will not bow to the likes of Coleridge and his ilk.
Fuck you for the sickness you still hold within your hearts.
It was a close run thing. I’m still here. I’m still alive. I survived. I can now say that I truly am a Survivor.
I’m still breathing. I feel. I see light ahead. I sense the meaning of the word freedom.
This could have been a poem. But it is not.
This is a fucking indictment of the lifelong effects felt by children when they are abused.
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