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If you are a survivor, please be careful in reading the information compiled here. It is impossible to give information on ritual abuse, and about people's opinions about ritual abuse, in a way that is not upsetting and/or triggering. Only you know how much is wise to read, and how much information you can absorb at one time.

Poetry by sherlok

Inside My Skull

may '95)

my teeth are sharp and
my mouth tastes of blood
and sour heat.
inside my skull
a pounding
howling pain
paces just behind my eyes.
i wait for something
to become more clear
than this growing need
to die.
i wait for someone
to open this lying door
so that i can show my truth.

i am dead
murdered a lifetime ago
a walking corpse
dissected
violated
for the dark pleasure of
those that came in my nightmares
and carried me from my innocent bed.
there is some small part alive
as my pink
quick tongue
darts over parched
paper lips
tasting the sharpness of my intention
dotted on my lips.
i am patient
i will outlast the liars
because i know their secret shame.
they cannot look upon so naked a desire
to end this suffering silent fury.

howling now
i break upon the floor
am spattered on the walls
frothing hatred
and all and everything
becomes again the room
that had no ears
that had no hiding place
that had no one
at all
not even me.
the dark hands tore me
breaking the small resistance
ripping
shattering
until there was no thing left
to know what they had done
to that small unspoiled body
hardly owned or known
used up
and emptied out
numbed and splintered away
in heart beats.
take me to the light
high above
so far away
no mercy there
because there was none in that
place
somehow i did not let go
and the moment found me back again
waking from their nightmare.

hands now holding me
as i spew murder
and revenge
for i am re-membered
and i know what they have done.

i am mad
a mad woman
screaming out above the awful
silence
of anyone at all.
no one stopped them
i must be stopped instead
from taking their tool away.
i cannot quiet this hungry
angry heart.
where were you then?
why do you stop me now?
their mark on me is deep
and somehow must be erased.
but how?

Patients

(may '95)

i sit upon this captive's bed
and look out of the locked window.
a wire screen stands between my self and
cool bleeding glass
between myself and
hungry air and dying earth.
i sit and glare upon my useless hands
as they lay fisted in my lap
knotted like my belly
and will not let me go.
my hands
cold angry
claws
cannot find the key to open
the small heavy windowed
watchful door behind me.
i let them see my back so they
cannot steal my face
to put upon their lying pages
stacked outside this door.
i will not utter a sound against these
four walls
this floor
this ceiling
and this impotent window.

Sometimes

(may '95)

Sometimes
when I awaken in the small
gray light of sleep's leaving
and the warmth of dawn,
I know my life as gift
and blessing both
now and then.

Sometimes
a sight or smell or taste
will bring me back to some joyous
happy time and
I feel my heart lift and stretch
like a bird longing for the sky.

Sometimes
when the day is gray and cold
I stretch myself between sleeping and
awakening to find my center in between
the soft hands of sleep and consciousness.

Sometimes
when we are younger
I find awe in little things
and not knowing is less important
than this heart beat.

Sometimes
when I view my scars
I touch them gently
and shed the tears that
we have held too long.
Our hand will not raise against
the flow.

Sometimes the veil between now and then
falls away and I can reclaim
my heart which I hid so deeply
then.

Sometimes
I know without doubt
that I am loved
and that what happened to
me did not defeat me
and that I will live
long enough to learn to
love again.

Sometimes
I hear a song or sound
and I am moved to tears
of sweetness
for I had closed my ears
so long ago
I did not think I could
hear that way again.

Sometimes
comes more
often
now
because I am
alive
and living.

 

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