Thursday, November 10, 2016

Deal with it

Deal With It
Don't tell me I'm overreacting. Don't
you dare tell me my fear isn't fear isn't
real isn't justified isn't mine to own. "You
don't need it ... that doesn't hurt ... a year
from now, it won't matter." My mother's words
echo in empty hallways long past her second
death. No surprise I couldn't tell her, I didn't
tell her when the neighbor boy, an older boy,
lay me down in the back seat of his father's
car, pulled down my pastel day of the week
underwear and I never told. I never told, not
because he threatened me. Because I learned -
years before the boy and the car
and the shame - not to make my mother sad.
So excuse me if I don't give a fuck
about your discomfort. It's not that I don't
care, but it's not about you. When you lecture me
to let it go, to go along to get along, to make
nice, I'm sorry but I won't carry the weight
of your emotions even an inch further. If you can't
deal with my fear, just wait, my friend. Just
wait until this silver haired lady of a certain age,
just wait until she finds her fury.

--LJ Cohen November 10, 2016


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