Undress Me Poem by Marguerite C. Anderson

Sometimes I wish you would undress me,
Let me show you what is in the castle of my skin,
Undress my thoughts heavily draped in layers of fabric,
Fabric made to conceal the brainwashed child within.
Undress me so I may share
How in my seemingly perfect world,
They took the innocence of a little girl.
If only I knew I wore my fate like a scarlet letter
If only I knew- then I might have changed things for the better.

Everything about him was like a red flag
Waving urgently as this doe drew closer to her stag
But when at age 18, my family had already pushed me out
He opened his door and gave me a sanctuary, no doubt.
Over time the disgraced news of his physical abuse
Reached their ears.
My innocence left me. I had lived up to their worst fears.
When my faced showed the darkened blows of his anger,
My family admonished me for my ill-judgement
They, too, injured the child with their spear and dagger.

A frightened, trapped and powerless girl in an unwanted situation,
Had merely become a mirror of her own socialization.
I wish when the family criticized, you had undressed me
To uncover the disguise.
When they cursed and gloated in their secret meetings
And justified themselves with their lies,
When they became judge and jury-
"Serve her right! "they seemed to say-pity no one told them
That they and the community that raised me
Taught me to debase me.

Undress me,
Let me show why I allowed abuse in my life
When for years I witnessed abuse next-door on either side.
The neighbours didn't close off the horror with their fences.
This frightened little girl,
Saw how men hammered, kicked, stubbed, grabbed
And threw heavy fists at their human punching bags.

Yes, women who these men say they loved,
Women who, in men's beguile, bore their love-child.
Human punching bags that were frail and yet strong.
Had to have been strong to endure the pain for so long.
The women never walked out
Maybe it really wasn't easy.
On my breast, life's history placed my scarlet letter.
If you thought I was lucky,
Raised in my Christian den,
Sad to say, abuse is not only ascribed to non-Christian men.
For in my family, Men of the Cloth had their punching bags, too
And the screams of terror still haunt me even now
It's true!
Yes, the deacons and the ministers have their time in the boxing rink
So undress me quickly,
Before these heavy clothing causes me to sink.

I wish someone had undressed me,
Revealed my nakedness, ungagged my mouth
For my thoughts are burdened by a life of doubt,
Undress the secrets heavily buried in the memory of the child
Who was taught to be silent but learnt to relent.
Undress them, also.Show the hypocrites they are.
Undress them now so that maybe they would all repent.