Walls

I'm still under the rage of refusal. The refusal of rape, child abuse, violence , sexual brutality. So I'm still writing.


Walls


Many envy people who live in thick walled houses

I don’t.

My thin walls let in every bump, thump and rumbadum dump but

Its nosy vocals reassure me that if I can hear them,

So can they hear me.



I used to live in a thick walled house once

It was safe, private and filled with familiar voices.

Those times were different, where seeking arms

did not meet a surprised bed or

hard floor but a beating heart.



I remember, however, a little girl who lived behind thick walls.

Evil waited for her at the bottom steps under the very last

deck of floors and took her into the hollow,

covered her frightened lips and plunged.



Every time, her lips got less frightened and

opened in gaped resignation.

Evil took again and again; walls did not protect her.

They were too thick to let through the sound of her shocked heart.



Soon evil got bold and moved from under

the darkened steps and into her walls,

underneath a sister’s nose, who, instead of offering hopes of protection,

blackmailed for adolescent wiles.



So thin walls may be flimsy, exposing, nosy and

noisy, still, they suit me fine.

For in this noise and within these walls.

I find safety in every bump, thump and rambambam gump.

For if I can hear them, then surely, happily securely,

they can hear me.