A locked door, a peephole, a window to my soul
Hours of solitude, shirtless, semi-nude
Surrounded by hurt and coal-shed dirt
Cowering in a corner “I did warn you, this is your penance for disobedience”
My unclothed back, weeping wounds inflamed by the sunlit crack
I try to understand this, what was so amiss
Spiders for company, alone with my ignoring
Crying, weeping, my wounds seeping
In the dark, the belt buckle mark
A raised welt felt
Only weight underweight
But if I was ten, I’d fight back again
But to hit my mum, what would I have become?
Is it because I’m adopted, that my brother hasn’t copped it?
Or just maybe it’s because I’m a war baby
That everyone stared, but nobody cared
Of course the orphanage was worse, every male nurse a curse
Coming to you in the dark ‘up for a lark’
Caressed, undressed, duress, traumatically stressed
Then the dreaded ‘50’s, not just the times, the men
Ignoring the screams, they worked in teams
Society, deaf and blindness, no belief, no help, no kindness
Long dead are the abusers, the users, the refusers
So what’s the use of historical abuse?
It remains a mystery, buried in history
Did adoption solve my issues?
Reflection now, wrapped in tissues
Sixty years later, I remain a traumatised hater
