Standing Solidarity: My Women's March Poem

You would think there would be a strange comfort
In finding so many women who suffer as you do
Women who are woken in the middle of the night
Hyperventilating
Screaming
Cursing
At facing the same tainted face in the mirror
As you do.
You want to throw your arms around them
Provide them comfort you can't give yourself
Because no one should live the way you do.
No one should torture themselves the way you do.
No one should hate themselves the way you do.
No one should wish to disappear as you do.
There's no longer such a thing as
Hiding from triggers.
They are
Everywhere.
Time passes, and it does start to help.
You can broach the subject
And not feel suffocating fear at who will hear you
Because they understand.
They know that fear, too.
#MeToo, they all say
And you weep not because you were alone
But because we were all alone together.
And you have never wanted to take revenge more
In your entire life.
Vengeance is mine, says the Lord,
And you turn your stinging eyes to Him,
Who came here as a man.
Why would He come here as a man?
When you first met Him,
It was all you could to shield yourself from Him,
Cowering under blankets and stairs and folded arms,
Screaming and crying and hoping He'd go away
Because you don't trust Him
Like that.
Just as you are judged for what lies between your legs,
So you judge Him.
God or not,
He is a man.
You allow Him in the same room as you,
That burn-scarred landscape you call your heart,
Only because He looks at you so tenderly,
And He keeps His distance.
You pretend He's not there,
And go about your charade.
You deliberately wear baggy clothing.
You don't wear makeup or jewelry or do your hair.
The less attention on you, the better.
The better you're able to protect yourself.
Even dressing down to shower
Is an anxious struggle for you,
And as you examine yourself in your reflection,
You wonder why you hate yourself
When there is nothing there to hate.
And then you remember.
He is still there,
Sitting at your side,
Watching you with tender, tear-soaked eyes
And holding out His hand,
Always ready.
You sit through family railing on women
Coming forward without proof.
"They just want attention."
"They're lying for profit."
"They're just too sensitive."
"Where's the evidence?"
"Why did they wait so long?"
You fight the familiar nausea as you are swimming in your memories,
Wondering to God why
And what
And how you are supposed to cope
When even those who know your pain
Are screaming out in restaurants and in public places
That these women are lying
When all the while, you think to yourself:
"But that was me, too."
That is
Me, too.
You try and comfort yourself by saying
"It would never go anywhere."
"There IS no proof, so it would do no good."
While all the while the truth behind this is,
"You will never have closure."
You've had it.
It's been so long, and now you're done.
You scream at Him, shouting with your might.
Why?
Why would You let him do this to me?!
Why would You let me be violated like this?!
You don't understand.
You would never understand.
Even You, in Your Passion, weren't raped.
Tears tearing His voice and angry hurt in His eyes, He replies,
"How do you know?"
You knew about that night in the jail cell,
The night before He was condemned,
Locked below with nothing but the abusive jeers
And beatings of the Roman soldiers.
Is it possible?
...Could it be possible?
You shudder in nauseous realization when you realize,
Yes
It could very easily be possible.
There is no evidence.
It could never be proven.
But then, He is just like you.
No proof.
No evidence.
He didn't come forward.
He came back from the dead,
Rising in direct rebellion against all who'd flogged Him,
Who tore the flesh from His bones,
Who pierced His glorious Flesh with rusty nails,
With nothing but a message of utter, incomparable Love
And Mercy.
So maybe there's hope for you
To rise
And prove others wrong,
Just as He did.