justice
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Some monsters get handcuffs. Some get courtrooms,cells,a number where their name used to be. And somewalk out the fucking door. Twenty years later,I still remember the boynobody could savebecause grown men had money,lawyers,and enough silenceto bury the truth alive. Billy Tripley walked. The detectives knew.We knew. But knowinghas never been the same thingas proving. So…
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She has heardevery version of hell. Children whisperingwhat monsters didbehind locked doors. Women apologizingfor surviving. Men swallowing shamebecause someone taught themvictimhoodhad a gender. Still,she sits beside them. Still,she lowers her voiceinstead of raising it. Still,she looks into facesthat have forgottenhow to trust and gives themone thingthe world already stole— choice. There must be nightswhen every…
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There is always a roomwith no windows, a metal table,two chairs,a box of tissuessomeone keeps replacingbecause griefnever runs out. This is wherethe worst thingthat ever happened to youbecomes evidence. Where your shaking handsare asked for details. Where strangerswrite downthe color of the walls,the hour,the smell,the sound you madewhen you realizedno one was coming. And somehowyou…
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Nobody tells youthe dead follow detectives home. Not like ghostsin white dresses. Nothing so mercifully obvious. They followin smaller ways. A photographthat will not leavethe back of your eyelids. A child’s bedroom. A mother’s scream. The soundof somebody askingwhy. They follow youthrough the front door, sit beside your childrenat dinner, crawl beneath the sheetsbetween youand…
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Courtrooms count paperwork and allegations; motherhood keeps counting lullabies, scraped knees, and all the care no file can hold.
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Truth was once used like a threat; now she lets it stand on its own without giving fear the final word.
Between Bruises & Blooms 