Apr 05, 2012 00:23
And the shadows come downstairs.
I’m wary of the air of celebration
I dislike the atmosphere of elation that retroactively might look like grave-dancing.
I’m off in a quiet corner of the party hoping that the cops don’t come.
Even though this no longer feels like my house.
I feel like getting everyone’s attention and giving them a nice, big, condescending
“Easy. Easy. Let’s all take a step back here.”
But the train has left the station and momentum will do what it does.
And anyway, that is not my call.
And anyway, to express nervousness over the proceedings is to expose my own swallowing of the rape culture pill.
And anyway, to fear the repercussions of our actions is to disrespect the victims.
And anyway, to be a man in this situation makes me feels as helpless as I’ve felt in the years leading up to this.
And anyway, I’m angry.
And anyway, I’m afraid of being outed as the sexist, demeaning pig that I am.
And anyway, I keep the potential rapist inside of me hidden from the world as all men do and that rapist is scared and since he is a part of me, I am scared as well.
I know the truth is out. Or to be clearer, I know that’s what is out is the truth. I know the central basis of what’s happening is supposed to be healing and is supposed to have a goal of welcoming back. I’m not sure that’s realistic or possible.
All I know is that I’m searching for balance and as a result, a devil’s advocate is stuck in my Adam’s apple as I look at what used to be the Garden of Eden.
tags
rape,
poem