Out of the Grave

This use to be my dream
To live the live I’m leading.
All this child wanted
Was for someone to stop the bleeding.

To see a moment my attacker
Would be the one to lose
Simply by my forgiving
And living as I choose.

I never thought I’d see happiness
Or a day without a tear,
A day to stop my hunger
And ease my ruling fear.

When life was younger
It was so much weaker.
I had to give in to evil
In order to survive the seeker.

My pain was a pleasure
For someone insane,
But no one could stop
The endless rain.

I knew in my heart
From the way it all went,
It would only be my future
On which I could depend.

And now it is here,
My survival has come.
No more will I hide.
No more will I run.

The past is behind me.
The future ahead.
My freedom has arrived.
My conviction dead.

We win all along
The young ones abused.
For what you’re afraid of
Is by what we’re amused.

You can’t convict
A survivor of prison.
For when you are searching
We know the reason.

It’s all an endurance
To which you create.
You think you’ll love it,
But regret your hate.

You search for shelter,
But lose to the brave.
For those who survive you
Are out of their grave.

1989 Written by Gail Brookshire
(published in Flight magazine #3, Spring ’94, pages, 107-109)
(by the grace of God)
P.S. For those about to attack, I suggest you release your victim.
They may me the destroyer.
PSS. This was the first time I had allowed myself to speak openly about being abused in any way. I was surprised from the outpouring responses, especially the ones from an office full of male social workers… thanking me for writing it… saying so many people needed to read it and that so many people needed to be spoken for… including myself. They said it as if they were accepting personal acknowledgement for hard work that went unnoticed. It was so surprising, so touching, and unexpectedly comforting, though I wouldn’t recognize for years that it had been comforting. I didn’t even know I needed that comforting. I didn’t think I needed anything from anyone. God did. ❤