“You say anything and I’ll crush your head with a hammer just like this can.”
*CRUNCH!*
Hollering, howling I hail the protectors.
Saints of justice, sovereignty of kingdom,
a boy’s hero.
Pressure expands, elucidating no enunciation.
Hands enshrouding my mouth whisper,
“That doesn’t happen to boys.”
“A big boy wouldn’t let that happen.”
“I’ll crush your head.”
“It’s your word against mine.”
Incessant years of silent shouting, screaming supplication.
Bleeding.
“A big boy wouldn’t let that happen!”
“A BIG BOY WOULDN’T LET THAT HAPPEN!!”
Unfeeling and quelled I fell to those who would wield me.
Saints and sinners merge, indistinguishable.
No substance save pain and relief,
a mercenary of alleviation arbitrarily found.
Eyes of justice, truant of truth, proclimate
my castigation be served now in high-handed fashion.
The only service be that of pain.
Relief came to me, in
being jettisoned and tattered.
Persistence of malevolence but cessation of manipulation.
Beatings merely upon my body, my heart enveloped in desolation.
My soul established enshroud,
justice simply confected concrete about a concealed soul.
Justice, entrusted the name in irony.
If she be just, she would have
liberated, extricated, credited credence, championed, loved
the little me.
Me, she newly christened with equivalent name
to the fiends that ensconced my soul.
Hands of justice do not liberate nor champion.
Hands cold and clammy cloak my cries.
“Nobody will believe a little freak like you.”
Hands senseless and deluded, feature me as fiend.
Saints and sinners still merged, tantamount.
My soul still bridled and alone. | MJA