Survivor’s Scars


(Note: written several months ago as part of the recovery process.) 

Hissing down Highway 1
in the rain,
Baltimore in the rear view.

Brushing against old pain
repressed for 20 years,
but suddenly bleeding
through my chest,
three grey hours ahead.

I wasn’t the one
who was sick, I said.
Not the one who died.
I was just the supporting cast
the nameless crew member
in the red tunic.
Disposable. Unimportant to the plot.
Everyone saw the patient,
Not the one holding the bedpan.

So it didn’t matter, I said,
Pretending to believe it. 

I told myself
I didn’t matter—

So keep quiet.
Keep it quiet.
Be the good soldier.
Be strong.
Zip it.
Do what you must.
Twenty years.
Six times, the same refrain.

You’re not the one who got sick,
the sneering voice said.
You’re not the one who died.
How can you think
you
deserve
anything?

But I did. I do.
The habit I fell into,
of automatically deferring,
balancing the demands of justice, 
on the point of need,
took deep hold.

Justice parses, examines,
denies and diminishes,
clarifies…
but never tells the full truth.

Life has to be about
more than just surviving…

Doesn’t it? 

Does it?

It does. At last.

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