I heard there were other girls after me. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe if I had said something way back then there wouldn't have been. All the maybes. I was a child. I still beat myself up about it though. Every now and then there is this space inside of me that feels free. Then I feel guilty for feeling that because I picture some other young girl who thought she could trust him because he wore a robe. Some young girl feeling violated who grew up and maybe forgot about him but couldn't shake his tounge, maybe his fingers, his voice in her ears. Maybe something I could have stopped.
This is the work. This is putting up or shutting up. This is being of service to someone else or not. This is honoring myself or being a victim to some old something else some old other sad story. This is making a difference or turning my head. This is the line. This is jumping into freedom or not.