Though sinners’ souls are shriven clear,
the ravished aren’t restored.
The Good News turns to Bad News near
the raped, abused, or whored.
Most kids like me kept mum, for fear
that ill repute would smite us.
But unhealed traumas reappear.
The past comes back to bite us.
Two decades on, I told the dear,
kind man that I adored.
The bits he couldn’t bear to hear
he said could be ignored.
We waited—faithful, chaste, sincere—
for marriage to unite us.
But unhealed traumas reappear.
The past comes back to bite us.
Once wed, we scrimmaged, set to cheer
the moment that we scored,
but childhood trauma’s souvenir
had blocked me like a board.
Halfway through our fourth wed year,
my body ceased to fight us.
But unhealed traumas reappear.
The past comes back to bite us.
Like phosphorus, some harms adhere.
We tidy their detritus,
but unhealed traumas reappear.
The past comes back to bite us.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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