Indigenous, I Am

by Niltooli Wilkins

I knew them, so this must be ok They held my innocent trust in their palms like a fragile infant Cradled it, made sure not to startle it awake They know me, so what they are doing must be acceptable

Did this all happen or was this one of my reoccurring nightmares? “That was sexual trauma.” Words said with empathy from my first therapist

I feel nude when I’m fully clothed. The heat of others’ eyes scorching my skin’s surface. I can’t hide my body anymore.

Others thought of him as a God, dressed in intellect and charisma. Calm, composed, and charming were the masks he wore.

I fucking hate being a statistic.

My mother was abused, and her mother and her mother before her. This entity lives and travels from body to body being passed on through generations.

This cycle of continuous merry-go-round pain, circular and up and down we ride.

My blood is boiling over, and the little girl in me is howling. Look at me. Notice me. Hear me. Validate me. Listen to me. Believe me. And above all, protect me and wrap me in something or someplace safe.

I looked in my mother’s dark copper eyes, and truly saw my own reflection.

The Creator gave me a heart. Meant to repair and then expand with every break, bruise or damage. With my head submerged underwater each beat is so evident and clear in its message to me. I am alive, and I hold everything I need.

We are brought into this world as we are raw, natural, lovely as such As we grow up, some bend and contort their bodies to fit in a box

It’s okay to have an overwhelming fear of being happy

Fear lives inside me It’s built a nest a comfortable space to lay in the many shades of darkness

I know resilience You may equate darkness with unworthiness

Young one, it wasn’t your fault They held your innocence in their palms like a fragile piece of art

My past lives on in me, but I will no longer be handcuffed and confined to it