Grace’s Party

Such a pretty girl, such a lovely face. You cannot believe what they planned for little Grace.

She has dressed up for the party, she is twelve today the house is full of women they are all Aunties, that is what her mamma says.

She can’t remember details not her screams that made her mother pale. She does remember blood OH! it was everywhere. She remembers the cobwebs on the ceiling at which she had to stare.

The pain is still so awful she can’t get out of bed, there is so much blood but none of it is as bad as the thoughts within her head. So tired and in need of sleep but the pain is so intense that she cannot find rest, the pain does not relent.

They told her she was clean now , and fit to be a bride. They said she was a woman and she should be filled with pride.

Poor Grace could feel no pride, all she felt was pain from the stitches and the feeling that she would die if they touched her again. She feared growing up and having to marry a man they told her they’d have to cut the stitches then. She could not bear that thought..I do not think anyone can.

This poem is about female circumcision or  female  genital mutilation( FGM  ) as it is commonly known. I could not write this poem last week but I did post a link to information on this abuse. But I felt I must be strong as I must bring this abuse of young girls to your attention. So there it is a poem for Child Abuse Awareness Month.

Black Mood.

I can feel the anger in him, I try to help but I just make it worse. They talk in loud harsh voices….. I try to calm them but as ever I make it worse. I always make it worse, I did back then and even now I do the same.

It is there bubbling  just beneath the surface. It is mean and angry and when it bursts forth it is always directed at me. I sit here and I hear the anger. Their voices are even but angry.Black and hot like tar it is it smears and sticks and is the devil to get off.

Every time I say anything it is spat out and changed so in the end even I feel that it is me that has caused this. If they would read this they would say I am drowning myself in pity. I can hear them now “what is it to do with you? why is it always to do with you? ”

It is not to with me but as a mother  I need to help I need to insist I need to make sure they are safe and sorted ! My boys if they bleed I bleed for them if they weep I weep for them if they need I need to help them.

Then it is sorted I hear the voices quieten and drop , the goodbyes are said off one goes.I am here with their dad.

But I can feel the anger. It is there bubbling  just beneath the surface. It is mean and angry and when it bursts forth it is always directed at me. I sit here and I hear the anger their voices are even but angry.Black and hot like tar it is it smears and sticks and is the devil to get off.

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Claire Ladds

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