I can count
myself
among them—

those who
dare to share
their own
experience
of shame.

Victims.

No trigger warning
is necessary.

It’s too
unspeakable.

For the longest time
I listened
to others,
never imagining
I would ever be

a victim.

One of the first
I will call Karen
would not speak
while Mary,
the intern
who brought her to me,
remained
in the room.

I noticed,
but did not yet understand
the pattern
of shame—

how the presence
of one more person
could make speech
impossible.

I had seen it before:

the lowered face,
the closed body,
the trouble
making eye contact,
the question
beneath the story:

If I tell you,
will you abandon me?

If I become
too emotional,
will you send me away?

Only later
did I understand:

telling
is not
the same
as being free.

After the therapist,
after the few
who can listen,
there is still
the long walk home
with the shame.

Victims are asked
repeatedly
to protect
the innocent

so they can continue
to live
in the illusion
of their innocence

and their ongoing
experience
of innocence—

innocent
of exposure
to any experience
where they are victims
of forces
beyond our control.

We are survivors,
we tell ourselves,
even in our weakened
state of being.

Sometimes we smile—
pretending
we are not
bothered
by the past
in that moment.

Not noticing
my inner state,
you ask,

“Hey, how are you tonight?”

“I’m good,”
I say,
before thinking,

“and you?”