These Are My Words Of Death
These are my words of death—
not breathed, but broken, like bones
not whispered soft,
with out that filter
but hurled like stones against your empty heart.
I drag them behind me
like the hurricane after it screams,
like the pain of the wasp after the sting.
I speak to your family some dead like you now because silence
was your kind of life,
without
the voice in your head that would have kept you somewhat honest
when your world refused to sleep
and those now still alive in your prisons,
you even now refuse to remember,
May your headstones be wrenched from the earth
your bodies dug up
and crushed, pulverized in the presence of your family.
It has taken me nearly forty years to come back
to the scene of your crimes against me,
and against all the others.
Raped and physically assaulted hundreds of times,
at union correctional institution.
What you both did to me is unforgivable.
Cynthia Heir and you Manuel Menendez jr,
there I said it, both of you publicly after almost
forty years.
If I could give you both two life sentences and
thirty years running consecutive, I would.
You two have harmed so many people not only me, and for what.
So you could have your seat
on the bench in Lakeland,
of the second district court of appeals?
There are those who choose not to heal
with out hands,
with out mercy,
with loud tongues
that shelter those that are inhumane,
that love to kill other people.
Like therein the above I have named.
Without Autism and knowing how to Read,
I would still be,
where they keep everybody people like you
have condemned.
And I know that my hatred for you two
is like a malignant cancer that I can not cut out.
But you now speak with the shadows,
without that voice in your head
like that of scrap iron,
splitting whole things that death has torn out.
Rage is now my weapon,
that which sustained me in prison that witch I learned
too file the 3.850
where the pure hearted woman released me,
it is a luxury that you can not waste.
On those such as I.
A pale moon for ever sinking
below barren fields,
and it tells me we are not yet finished.
The journey has not yet come to it's end.
Uncomfortable amongst humanity—
here you fade.
Dressed in black
Never present, not gentle—
but distant.
Shifting as does the smoke.
Cold never waking.
And when I linger to long in one spot,
I am killed by you once again.
The trees do not rejoice
in digging deep.
Their sapp dries up.
They tremble in the desert of snow,
when winter bares their bones.
And so they wither—
as did I,
brown leaves like torn rags
that I never could understand.
I have seen the righteous fall.
I have seen compassion mocked.
And I have also seen
a child like me now turned away
from an empty hand,
as that woman wept,
On those red brick ruined streets,
made in Valdosta Georgia.
My body now filled with your many scars
now choosing hatred,
angry mumbling of death under my breath.
I do not believe in your church.
Your church burned thousands at the stake.
Killed millions in the Americas alone.
Hundreds of millions in war.
I do not believe in you, nor did they.
You bury their dead as you have tossed away your own children.
Your words do not warm.
They wound.
They shrivel me up
like the ripe fruit on a tree never picked.
You speak and it is
winter again.
I once remembered the sea—
how I now sink,
held in it's dark and great depths.
The waves did not comfort,
they only said:
you are now gone,
you are broken,
you are now forever lost.
I do not miss that.
And I do not find
its opposite in you.
You,
who listen only
to be right.
You,
who hold tightly to your purse,
only to take.
You,
who fight with closed fists
knives hidden behind your back.
Your living bodies ripe with corruption.
Hope is not a decision.
It is not a kind feeling—
or a fragile one,
shattered again each day again and again.
I do not choose it.
Because people like you taught me
how to lie and steal.
Even when your wife's womb so blooms,
it will be born of darkness.
The two of you are wed as the anti-christ,
hearing his and her voice—
sharp, certain, lying —
pulling the pieces again apart,
over and over again.
Let them call it wisdom,
this disbelief in goodness.
Let them sleep in the land of nod.
Let them continue praises, to that which is evil.
For I will still keep doubting you.
The sapless trees.
The leafless bushes.
The moon’s dim hush.
And you,
scarred yet refusing the peace,
You have denied to so many others.
Fighting still because of your wrongs
and in the darkest of night—
and to all such as you,
and these are my words of death.
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