Why I Write

To the one who abused me,

                Whose actions prove

that he doesn’t regret it.

To my family,

                Whose reactions confirm

that they just don’t get it.

To my friends,

                Whose dissatisfactions show,

and wish I’d forget it-

That is why I write.

For the Rabbi,

               Who won’t listen to words

for fear of slander.

For the Lecturer,

   Who equates victimization with stomach illness

declared in candor.

For the communities,

                Who raise Tzedaka for molesters,

not the innocent bystander-

That is why I write.

They are all united:

With their persistence,

In their resistance

To my own existence-

           Still I am right.

They share one goal:

To deny the truth,

By erasing my youth

In ways so uncouth-

Still I am right.

And I do not expect:

Anyone of them to read,

Nor my words to heed.

Though they think they succeed-

         Still I will write.

Postscript

(To the one that I married,

               Who will always stand by

through thick and thin.

To my therapist,

               Who believes in me

           that ultimately I can win.

And to a mere few others,

               One who is a Rabbi,

           the other being a cousin-

That is how I write!)