Belief

Catching someone’s belief in your hands is hard sometimes.
It flutters fitfully against clenching fingers,
not wanting to hear words that fracture and taint the picture they have in their heads,
    chipping at well-crafted facades that were made to never be doubted.
It’s hard to get them to listen to you,
when you whisper in clipped, fear-soaked words,
    that their friend and neighbor, isn’t who they thought they were.
Or even worse,
    they are, but behind closed doors, or in the presence of only those less powerful,
    they become swallowed by the deep pit of anger inside them,
    and drag others down with them,
shoving their kids down below the surface of what childhood should be,
where they have to thrash and claw their way to any small breath of cherished air
or risk still silence that is inescapable.
Where those small faces can sit forever,
hiding under a blanket, hoping the screaming will stop,
and never realizing that they’ve grown up, moved away, started their own life.
That no one can hurt them now.

People don’t want to believe,
that a person whose clothes are perfectly ironed,
    who goes to church every week,
    volunteers to help you move during a Phoenician summer,
    runs his own business, and has a gleaming smile,
can also be an abuser to his spouse and children.
It’s far too easy for them to tell you that you’re over reacting, dramatizing, lying about it all.
You’re just seeking attention.
You’re too young to know what abuse is.

You’re complaining over nothing.
You’ve played too many violent video games.
It was just a nightmare.

With these reactions to our truths,
it’s no wonder that when we grow up,
we find new abusers,
and we tell ourselves our own lies.
    It was only once. They won’t do it again.
    I deserved it. I shouldn’t have said that.
    It’s my fault.
    I don’t want to be alone.
    This is normal.
    No one would believe me anyway.