Pudendal Neuralgia Speaks

Sorrow

When Will I Be Heard?

With the sound of my skull crushed between the train and the railway tracks?

With the snap of my neck in the noose?

With the cry of my orphaned child for its mother's breast?

Maybe I will not be heard.

Will I be seen?

In the despondency of my father's loss?

Or in the terror of my mother's face?

With the blue bloated body pulled out of the lake?

The blood from my wrists must have a recognizable smell.

When will I be listened to?

Only after i have lost everything?

Why did you not hear me when i spoke softly and explained that i am hurting?

Why did you pass me on and on and on and on?

I was still walking then, still talking then, still hopeful then.

Why did you?

Why did you?

Why did you not hear me when i could still talk and walk and explain to you what was happening?

My bones can speak, buried in frozen earth.

But all that is left for them to say is

sorrow, sorrow, sorrow

and the muffled stench of my flesh speaks too

as do my hands that lay here tied in gauze

sorry, sorry, sorry

art therapy workshop, 2011