I see my sisters rising, I hear my brothers lift their voices.
I see a dozen, a hundred, now a thousand of us rise, the children of patriarchy.
We lived.
Like Joshua we were sent in to take the land and like the inhabitants of the land
We ran. We fled and now we lick our wounds and heal.
Bred as weapons, we're tired of fighting. Some of us write; we bleed our love and anger through the pages. We learn to crawl, relationships come stiffly and we're scared and full of hope.
Some of us ran to liturgy and we heal with every Mass. Some of us have left the faith in whose name we were condemned, and I trust my God will love His wounded children all.
We plead for justice, we argue and sweat and cry and beat our fists against the unmoving wall--and feel it shift.
And some of us are healing quietly, unobtrusive in coffee shops and dorm rooms and lovers' arms and
Sunday mornings sleeping in. We're trying to forget and make new lives for ourselves and maybe
Someday we'll speak out too. But for today, we're just trying to save our selves.
