Tasting The Belt of Belief


You’d have thought they were running a showroom
For a war torn IKEA
Filling it with survivors of camps
Far from the states of Concentration

To look at them was to be soaked in their pain
Creating nightmarish rings that would require scrubbing
With something more abrasive than the words they’d pasted
To cellular walls

Their minds, once a hydrosphere of promise
Had been eaten by tasteless salts of false testimony
Even as dreams bleached in pillowcases of misconception
Flew price tags at half mast, slashing hope, and
Reducing the cost of possibility

Their staged battle led to the checkout floor
Filled with children in locked rooms
Whose doors were covered in posters that read
“A Play On Words”

It was eerie not to hear a sound
More frightening still that no one
Arrived with a child


Thoughts
The Kidnapper seems the least likely suspect to speak, his suffix becoming a language that leads to focus on endings and little else. There is no reward because he doesn’t believe himself poor, having lived to accumulate the wealth of hatred. There is no ransom that a poker face can flush any further than down his throat than a tsunami of retribution. He is anyone that has ever taken what was ours and told us to enjoy the ride while pretending to look for our captor whilst already having died in anonymity to self.


I think of rapists not as mine, but as ours, because they were nameless, and aimed to leave all those physically weaker in similar states.

Rapists don’t want our bodies. They want theirs.
They don’t want our tears. They want theirs.
They don’t want our words. They want theirs.

We regain ourselves by using words recognized in light and dark, noise and silence.
We regain ourselves through search hunts, facing the floors of their evil by trudging through the steps of ours.
We regain ourselves by becoming poor, to accumulate untold wealth.
We regain ourselves by holding our breath to ride the tsunami all the way to the back of their throats, until we can box their heartlessness into a symbol of notes, like a permanent recitation of restoration.
We regain ourselves when exiting their body to step into our own.
We regain ourselves when taking back tears that fell on their hands, to pour them over our own lips, and exit their mazes of hell floating upon words of belief hugged tightly to our lips, like a championship belt of hope.


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