Poetry
Out of the Pit
by Kate Meyer-Currey
by Kate Meyer-Currey
This time I didn’t dig my own grave
with my bare hands as they looked
on and willed me to jump right in.
I let them keep the shovel and do
the job themselves. It was a hard
lesson but well-learned. I’ve been
buried alive too many times before.
Unspoken truths choke like clods of
earth. Frustration scratches at life’s
coffin lid until your nails wear down
to nothing. You bite your tongue in
half and drown in your own blood.
Your screams are silent because
they are deaf, dumb and blind to
your reality. But not this time. For
this time, you were only dormant
in that shallow grave. You saw the
sky and the trees and the hands
that reached down to clasp yours
and pull you out, to wipe the tears
and mud from your face and walk
beside you in the light of shared
experience, beyond silence, and
out of shame’s void. It’s hard to
step out into the sun when you’ve
been burned. Shadows feel safer.
But in the slow adjustment, your
bones straighten and you walk
tall again, as warmth returns. It
gets easier, just as every word I
drag from the chasm of past pain
and struggle, frees me to speak
with greater clarity as my rage
ebbs into realisation that I used
them to dig myself out, not bury
myself deeper. So what if I’m
walking wounded? At least I’m
still walking. Not stumbling into
another ditch where liars wallow
like hippos, talking dirt, eyes
bulging and ears twitching, ogling
fresh prey for their stick in the
mud jaws to swallow whole. Let
them sink while I walk across
the water, skimming like a stone,
where no moss clings.
with my bare hands as they looked
on and willed me to jump right in.
I let them keep the shovel and do
the job themselves. It was a hard
lesson but well-learned. I’ve been
buried alive too many times before.
Unspoken truths choke like clods of
earth. Frustration scratches at life’s
coffin lid until your nails wear down
to nothing. You bite your tongue in
half and drown in your own blood.
Your screams are silent because
they are deaf, dumb and blind to
your reality. But not this time. For
this time, you were only dormant
in that shallow grave. You saw the
sky and the trees and the hands
that reached down to clasp yours
and pull you out, to wipe the tears
and mud from your face and walk
beside you in the light of shared
experience, beyond silence, and
out of shame’s void. It’s hard to
step out into the sun when you’ve
been burned. Shadows feel safer.
But in the slow adjustment, your
bones straighten and you walk
tall again, as warmth returns. It
gets easier, just as every word I
drag from the chasm of past pain
and struggle, frees me to speak
with greater clarity as my rage
ebbs into realisation that I used
them to dig myself out, not bury
myself deeper. So what if I’m
walking wounded? At least I’m
still walking. Not stumbling into
another ditch where liars wallow
like hippos, talking dirt, eyes
bulging and ears twitching, ogling
fresh prey for their stick in the
mud jaws to swallow whole. Let
them sink while I walk across
the water, skimming like a stone,
where no moss clings.
